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Capes and Cuisines: Regirth (NEW CHAPTER ADDED 1/17/2022)


Cyril Figgis

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((Welcome back to a brand new installment of the third best superhero WG story out there (let it not be said that yours truly isn't humble), and we're taking a look at another sidekick whose figure is about to go to pot.  How does this come to be?  You'll just have to read and find out!))

FANG--THE GIRL WADDLER, PART 1

 

As Kristen Laree tugged against the chains that bound her, she accepted that maybe, just maybe, she had gotten in over her head.  When she had heard rumbles of a meeting between the Northside Ninjas and the Park Lane Bulls, she knew that the Wolf and Fang would need to make an appearance.  She relayed the information to her mentor, who laid out a perfect plan to spy on them and strike when needed, which did not sit well with his impulsive sidekick.  Her strategy was dropkick first, ask questions later; despite the mixed results of said strategy, she never seemed to learn.

Of course, the best laid plans of mice, men, and mice-men often go awry, and this was no exception.  In all the whispers she heard, Kristen had heard nothing about the Gargoyle making an appearance; the Ninjas and Bulls were far beneath a criminal of his caliber.  A couple Bulls had been stupid enough to steal some equipment from the Gargoyle, and if there was ever a surefire way to get killed, it was to steal anything from one of Cedar Oaks’ vilest criminals.  When the master hypnotist brought out his own enforcers, things took a turn for the catastrophic and could have ended in a bloodbath, were it not for Wolf and Fang breaking things up.

In the ensuing confusion, Kristen saw Gargoyle escaping and, against her mentor’s orders, followed after him on her custom dirt bike.  She knew that if she could take down a creep like him, then the Wolf would have more faith in her and let her do more than play a supporting role.  The Fang identity had been passed down to many a youth, but she was determined to be the best.  Unfortunately, her impulsiveness often got the better of her, as it did that night.  The Gargoyle led Kristen to what she assumed was his latest headquarters and a few goons lurking in the shadows got the jump on her before she could do anything.

This brings us back to our captive heroine, who still struggled with her chains as she tried to remember Wolf’s lesson on escape tactics.  When nothing came to mind, she slouched in the chair she was bound to and caught her breath.  She ached from the blows the Gargoyle’s mooks had landed on her, but she was otherwise fine for the time being.  Her sandy bangs covered one of her eyes, and she blew it away with an exasperated puff.  There was no telling what that creep would do to her, but she wanted to be glaring defiantly when he did.

“Isn’t this the part where you torture me?” she called out to the shadows. “If this were Mr. Friendly’s, I’d already be rocking a Glasgow grin, so what’s the hold up?”

A voice in the darkness replied, “Patience, little cub—you must have patience.  All will come in time.”

Her eerie host stepped into the dim circle of light around Kristen, and she took in the masked menace.  Keith Weisman, the man behind the Gargoyle mask, cut a towering figure—tall, lean, and a hungry look in his eyes.  When he deigned to remove his mask, he was a fairly handsome, if gaunt, man with caramel brown skin, scruffy beard, and untamed black hair, which only added to his imposing demeanor.  His lithe frame was cloaked in a gray suit with a navy blue cape and cowl and matching boots and gloves; all that was missing was the stony, horned mask that instilled fear in many.

“I must apologize for the rudeness of my assistants,” the Gargoyle told the captive Fang in a voice as cold as granite. “They will be thoroughly reprimanded, I assure you.  After all, it is most impolite to attack someone seeking my help.”

“The only thing I was seeking was your ass so that I could kick it,” Fang replied with a smirk.

The Gargoyle sighed and shook his head.  He took a seat across from Fang as he remarked disappointedly, “I would think that the Wolf would teach his cubs some manners at some point, but I suppose that would be too much to ask for that barbarian.”

“Or maybe we just don’t have any time for your fake gentleman crap, Goyle,” the headstrong sidekick retorted. “I’ve heard about plenty about you, and I’m not impressed.”

“And what have you heard, my dear?” asked the criminal.

Fang recalled all the information she could from the files in the Wolf Den. “You’re all about scaring people to death by making them live the most extreme versions of their worst fears.  You’ve buried people alive, thrown people off of rooftops, and even tossed a little girl into a snake pit.”

“I see that your vision of me is tainted by misinformation,” the Gargoyle said in return. “It was never my intention to kill anyone—on the contrary, I seek to cure fear in them.  I admit that my methods are extreme, but terror is a formidable foe that can only be bested with great strength.  Am I to be blamed for my patients not having the fortitude to confront that which haunts them?”

The sidekick rolled her eyes at the denial that was so common in the super-criminal community.  Anyone that ever claimed they were only trying to help was full of malarkey and was never to be trusted.  She answered, “There are easier ways to help people—ways that don’t involve the possibility for murder.”

“Perhaps, but my way is more effective and permanent,” the Gargoyle replied with a double entendre that was not lost on Fang. “But enough of that—you did not come here to talk about me, but receive my special treatment.”

“Yeah, no,” Fang snipped. “I’m going to get out of these chains, knock you around for a bit, and then wait for Wolf to get here so I can hand you over to him.  Don’t try any of that psychoanalysis mumbo-jumbo on me either, because it’s not going to work.”

A sinister grin sprouted on the villain’s lips as he hissed, “Little cub…your session has already begun.”

***

In truth, Fang was restrained, though not by chains—she was strapped into something akin to an electric chair combined with a polygraph.  A metal cap sent gentle vibrations through her body as she dozed, and the device hooked to her arm pumped her with a sedative that kept her tranquil and dazed.  Gargoyle sat across from her still, taking notes on his sleeping patient while she was still in a stupor.

“Patient is the sixth Fang: female; eighteen years old; tan complexion; five foot six; roughly one hundred ten pounds.  She displays impulsive tendencies and tends to look before leaping; she reminds me of the third Fang in that sense.  Tonight’s session will determine the root of her nature and how best to cure it,” the psychological fiend detailed to a recorder. “Fang, can you hear me?”

The drowsy girl stirred in the chair and groaned in affirmation, “Mhm.”

“Good—then let’s get to the bottom of this,” Gargoyle hummed as he clicked open a pen. “Put simply, my dear, what is it you are most afraid of?”

“Fffffamily,” Fang mumbled in reply.

That piqued the demented psychologist’s curiosity.  Of all the things for a vigilante superhero to be afraid of, he did not expect something quite so personal.  If the Gargoyle was any regular criminal, he might have pried deeper to try and discover Fang’s identity—and thus, the Wolf’s—but he did not care who they were under their masks.  What mattered most to him was getting the help they so desperately needed; they were just another pair of patients in his eye.

“Why are you afraid of them?  Is it something that they do or have done?” he asked softly.

Fang’s head lolled to the side in the negative and she answered, “No…’fraid of b’coming like mom n’ sister.”

“Interesting,” Gargoyle remarked while scribbling that in a notepad. “What would be so wrong with becoming like them?”

“’Cause they’re fat, lazy, n’ stupid…couple o’ bimbos,” the sidekick snorted sleepily.

Under better, more lucid circumstances, Kristen might have given a better answer, but that was the best summary her addled brain could manage.  She loved her mother and sister, truly she did, but she had questioned her relation to them as long as she could remember.  Francesca, her stay at home mother, was sweet as can be but had eaten herself into the upper reaches of plus-sized fashion after twenty years of tending house and vegetating in front of the TV in her spare time.  Kristen could not count the amount of times her mom had said she would start working out or dieting again, only to cave in a few days’ time.

Then there was her sister, Missy, who was just like her mother but magnified.  She was a shopaholic who spent most of her weekly paycheck on clothes, makeup, or anything else that Kristen deemed frivolous.  Melissa, as she hated to be called, had flunked out of college after her freshman year, and it was amazing that she had managed to make it that far to begin with.  Like her mother, she seemed to have no ambitions beyond creating her own dent in the sofa; the only real difference in their lives was that Missy got some exercise by going shopping all the time.

Kristen had spent the last eighteen years of her life watching the two ample airheads expand their waistlines but not their minds, and it scared her to think that she might wind up like them.  Often times, she had told her friends to shoot her if she ever started talking like a valley girl; she refused to become another Lazy Laree who lived only to eat, sleep, and watch bad rom-coms.  She would continue to train her body and mind and decrease the chances of ever turning into Francesca or Missy—especially her vapid sister.

All this, minus the names, was unknowingly relayed to her captor, who kept careful notes of everything told to him.  When Fang finally finished, the Gargoyle leaned back in his chair and stroked his beard as he thought of the best cure for his patient.  It would not be as simple as burying her alive or trapping her head in a spider tank; he would need something special for this case.

Finally, he decided, “I think I have just the thing for you, little cub.  Your personality clashes with those of your mother and sister, and this cause you to overextend yourself and push to be the exact opposite of them.  I believe that the best course of action will be to simply get it over with and let you experience life from their side—waddle a mile in their shoes, if you will.”

The gaunt man vanished into the depths of his lair for a spell, though Fang was too foggy to notice he was gone.  When he returned, he put two bottles of pills in her hand and coaxed her gloved fingers into holding it tight.  He explained, “These should give us the effects we’re looking for.  The white pills will help stimulate your appetite, though they have a nasty tendency to make one’s metabolism slow to a crawl.  The pink pills will make it easier for you to relax, but you will likely experience some lapses in memory and judgment.  If anyone asks, you can tell them they are for your allergies.”

“I don’t have allergies,” Fang yawned.

“You do now,” the Gargoyle told her. “For the best results, I recommend taking six a day—two in the morning, two in the middle of the day, and two before you go to bed.  Nod if you understand.”

When the sleepy sidekick slothfully nodded, her captor continued, “I want you to hide your prescription in your utility belt somewhere; it won’t do any good for the Wolf to find those.  Now, when I snap my fingers, you are going to fall asleep and forget this all happened, like a dream.”

The last thing Fang picked up before passing out was the Gargoyle telling her, “Just remember—fear is just a four-letter word, little cub…”

***

When Kristen woke up again, she was lying flat on an examination table in the underground lair known as the Wolf Den while people were talking beside her.  One of the voices belonged to William Doigt, the man under the Wolf’s mask, and Julia Worthington, the caretaker of Doigt’s ancestral home and the second in command of the entire Wolf Pack.   In the three years that Kristen had been a member of the team, she never quite clicked with old Julia; she assumed it to be disapproval of one more sidekick added to the roster, but she could never be sure.  All she knew was that the conversation was one that she had heard numerous times since joining.

“I can’t keep having this argument with you, Bill,” Julia told her ward. “She is brash to a fault, even more so than Turner was.  We got lucky that the Gargoyle did nothing to her this time, but what happens the next time?  Or the time after that?”

“All right, all right, Jules, I’ll talk to her—really talk to her, this time,” William replied in that raspy voice of his.

While the grown-ups were talking, Kristen propped herself up on the table and gave herself a quick examination.  Her costume was still in one piece: yellow tunic, blue sleeves that went down to her elbow, matching gloves, boots, and tights that ended just above her knees, all complemented by silver cape with red lining on the inside.  She did not feel any pain in her scrawny legs or arms, though her face ached from where the Gargoyle’s goons had landed a knock-out punch.  Julia was right—she had gotten extremely lucky that all the stone-faced creep did was chain her to a chair.

“How are you feeling, kid?” asked William as he approached.  He had shed much of the silver body armor of his costume and was down to the black spandex underneath, which emphasized his lean musculature.

“Besides being a little stiff from sitting in the world’s most uncomfortable chair, I’m fine,” Kristen assured the older man.  They both had enough on their plates without having to fret over her.

“Good, because I need you to really listen to what I’m about to say,” the older man told her.  As Kristen threw her legs over the side of the table, William explained, “You didn’t listen to me—again.  How many times do I have to tell you not to go running in without a plan?”

The sidekick sighed and crossed her arms over her flat chest.  She seemed to get this lecture every other week for the past three years, and it never got any easier.  William had this way of sounding like the world’s most disappointed parent, which made her feel tiny when confronted by him.

“I didn’t expect him to have back-up like that,” Kristen grumbled.

William grit his teeth and leaned his head back against the doorframe. “I can’t keep doing this with you, Kristen.  One of these days, I won’t be able to get to you in time, and then what?  I’ve already lost too many people I care about; I will not add you to the list.”

The next few words were worse than any injury Kristen had taken in the field, and William delivered them with deathly solemnity. “You’re suspended until further notice.”

It was a threat the older man had used time and again in the past, but she never imagined him actually pulling the trigger on it.  The young girl was in stunned silence for a moment, her thoughts racing at a hundred miles a minute and overloading everything else.  When she finally found her voice, it was creaky as she fought back tears.

“I…I just wanted to prove that I was good enough,” she whispered hoarsely. “I thought…I thought if I could take the Gargoyle…you’d trust me more.”

William sighed, “I trust you with my life, Kristen, but I’ve been at this since I was a kid and crusaders are not born overnight.  You’ve been training for three years—that does not make you ready to tackle the worst of what this town has to offer.”

Kristen bowed her head and sniffled as she fought back the tears that dripped down her domino mask.  All she had wanted to do was help the man that saved her and her friend’s life once upon a time; she had seen the good he did for Cedar Oaks, and she wanted to do her part.  Now, that was no longer an option, at least for the time being.  It was like someone had lopped off a piece of her body, though that would probably hurt less than this.

“For how long?” she choked out.

“Three months,” William answered. “I need you to fight those urges of yours this summer, and if you can manage that, I will let you come back to the fold.”

“But I’ll be at East State University by then!” Kristen whined before shutting her lips when she realized how childish she sounded.

Her mentor looked down to her and explained, “Yes, but that means you’ll be able to operate solo—without my supervision.  If you can control yourself these next few months, it means that I can trust you won’t run into anything without thinking first.  Deal?”

Kristen sniffled as she peeled her mask off her face.  She had no idea what she was going to do with herself now that the vigilante life had been stripped away from her, but she would figure it out.  With heavy heart, she shook her mentor’s hand and croaked, “Deal.”

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((We're back with another delectable, delightful, and downright devilish installment of Capes and Cuisines!  Last time, Kristen Laree was de-Fanged after being hypnotized by the Gargoyle.  What's going to happen to this plucky young heroine now that she has too much time on her hands?  You'll just have to read to find out!))

FANG--THE GIRL WADDLER, PART 2

Being suspended from the Wolf Pack was crushing for Kristen Laree in so many ways, but there was one aspect she had not counted on when she packed up her bag—without her nightly gig, her life was ungodly boring.  Her summer vacation was wide open in all the worst ways: her two best friends were gone for the next ten weeks, her family vacation had been cancelled after her father got a promotion, and her hours at the pool were cut back in anticipation for her leaving at the end of the season.  She tried to find other avenues to fill the void that was June, but no one was willing to hire someone that would be gone in a matter of weeks and the gym was no fun without someone to work out with.

As such, the spritely girl found herself restless in search of something, anything, to pass the time.  She was digging grooves in the floor with how much she paced around, which eventually became too distracting for couch-bound sister.

“Gawd, chegs, would you chill?  You keep that up, you’re gonna make me dizzy or billy,” Missy grunted from her creaking spot on the overtaxed sofa.

Kristen halted in her tracks and shot her sister a dirty glare.  It was Missy’s day off and she was spending it like she did so many others—watching trash TV with a day’s worth of snacks around her.  The ditzy blonde snatched up a greedy handful of buttery popcorn, scarfed it down, and licked the salty grease from her sausage fingers.  Without anything to distract her from her precious reality shows, Missy zoned out and threw all etiquette to the wind—not that she cared that much to begin with.  She slouched so much that she was practically horizontal, and she used her bare gut like a snack tray.  Her gut was bare because it was too much blubber for her shirt to contain and she was far too lazy to tug it back down.

“No, I’m not going to chill, Melissa,” Kristen scoffed at her older sister. “I’m going stir-crazy, and this is about the only thing keeping me sane right now.”

Missy snorted derisively, “Yeah, figure you’re real sane right now.”

“At least I’m trying to do something besides spend my summer on the couch, bubble butt!” the former sidekick jeered.

“Can it, spud!  Not my problem you got nothin’ going on,” her sister retorted with a glare.

Before the two could get into yet another screaming match, Francesca Laree waddled into the room with a fresh batch of snacks.  She set a bowl of chocolate covered pretzels down and clapped her hands while she yelled, “Be done!”

Both sisters immediately clamped up and turned away from each other, lest they incur the wrath of their mother.  Francesca blew a lock of flowing black hair from her chipmunk cheeks and sighed, “Oh my gawd, you two, what am I going to do with you?  It’s, like, the last summer you two have together before Kristen goes to school, and you want to spend it arguing?  You’re gonna give your mama a grown-up headache.”

“She started it!” they both exclaimed.

“And I’m ending it!” Francesca decided once and for all. “Apologize right now, or we’re, like, not getting Libretto’s for dinner.”

Kristen was averse to the fattening take-out fare her mother and sister indulged in, but she would never turn her nose up at Libretto’s—the best pizza joint in Cedar Oaks.  She huffed at Missy, “Sorry, Melissa.”

“Sorry, Krissy,” her sister replied.  It was her way at getting back at Kristen for using her full name—her baby sister hated being called ‘Krissy’ since the fifth grade.

Those little barbs aside, their bickering had ceased, which made Francesca happy.  The dark-haired beauty collected her snacks again and waddled over to the couch, thunder thighs thrashing together with every step.  She was wearing those leather, tiger-print pants she loved so much and fit comfortably about ten pounds ago, and Kristen had no idea how her mom always managed to squeeze her bulk into them.

“Want to join us, sweetie?  Like, your sister and I were just about to turn on that new Nick Spark movie,” Francesca offered after settling into her spot on the couch.  It was her spot because the crater in the cushion had been created by her ever-expanding backside, and no one else would be comfortable sitting there.

Before Kristen could turn down the offer, Missy answered, “Mom, you know Kristen is aces for these movies.  She thinks she’s totes better than them, just ‘cause they’re total chick flicks.”

That burned the blonde more than anything else, mostly because it was true.  She prided herself on being a film buff with an appreciation for the more avant-garde and obscure, at least in comparison to her family’s tastes.  If they were going to put on Truffaut, Tsukamoto, or Wiene, she would happily join in, but not for some shmaltzy, by-the-numbers romance.  At least, that was what she would have done if her sister had not provoked her.

“Hey, I’m always open to new things,” Kristen retorted as she stomped over to the couch. “I might actually like this one—you never know!”

“Like, the more the merrier,” Francesca happily remarked.  She tried to scoot over to give her youngest daughter more room, but she was already crammed against the arm of the sofa. “Oh, you’ll totally love this one: it’s about a couple who go sailing, like, a few days before their wedding, and then their boat crashes, and when they find them, they totally don’t remember each other, so they’ve got to fall in love all over again.”

Kristen fought the urge to roll her eyes at the trite summary, as she wanted to paint the picture of actually enjoying herself.  Instead, her gaze settled on the plates and bowls of snacks that were laid out on the table and around the couch.  She was not especially hungry, considering the large breakfast she had after taking her allergy medication, but they did look yummy.  Maybe a few goodies would be all right; if anything, they would likely make the movie more enjoyable.

As she plucked up a few chocolate-covered pretzels, the former sidekick felt her jeans pinch into her, a reminder of what a few too many snacks could do.  Though her biggest source of exercise had been cut out, Kristen still had the appetite of an active athlete and vigilante, and it was made even stronger by her meds.  She had put on a small layer of fluff over the last week, enough that her clothes were feeling tight and constrictive against her.  Despite being a twig when graduation came and went, her curves were quickly blooming into a fair hourglass, with shapely hips and plump breasts that had actual heft to them.  Maybe some girls would have been celebrating this new development, but not Kristen; she was quietly perturbed by the new weight and where it settled.

Despite her growing concerns over her weight, Kristen still filled a small plate full of snacks so as not to appear rude after her mother went through all the trouble of preparing them.  She could just nibble on them as the movie went on, and whatever was left would get eaten up by either her mom or her sister.  With that plan in place, she leaned back and zoned out as the movie began.

***

“Gawd, that was, like, the sweetest movie I’ve ever seen,” Francesca sniffled as she dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.

“My mon Spark don’t shiv,” Missy snorted, doing her best to not cry in front of her sister. “What’d you think, chegs?”

It took Kristen a moment to process the question, as she was lost in her own world.  How could she ever have written off these movies before?  A moving story, inviting cinematography, and sublime acting—it was all she could ask for in a movie.  It also helped that the lead male had to be one of the most gorgeous men she had ever seen; she had taken several mental photographs every time his shirt came off.  She wiped tears from her cheeks as she struggled to maintain her composure while the credits rolled, not wanting to show how much the movie affected her.

“It…it wasn’t too bad,” Kristen managed to answer. “I might check out another one sometime—not like I’ve got much else going on this summer.”

Francesca smiled and patted her youngest daughter on the knee. “Well, I’m just glad you wanted to join us, sweetie.  I’ll totally get more snacks next time—you must have been, like, so hungry!”

At the mention of snacks and how she must have eaten, Kristen glanced down and realized that between the three of them, they had managed to clear off the entire table.  She was sure that she had only picked at her plate, but the firm stomach peeking out from her shirt said otherwise.  With a blush on her freckled cheeks, Kristen tugged her t-shirt down and lay her hands on her stomach.  How had she managed to eat so much?  She had not been terribly hungry before this, yet she had eaten herself fuller than ever before.

That train of thought would have to wait, as a chime on her phone reminded her it was time to take her medication.  Kristen rose from the couch, winced as her taut tummy strained against her jeans, and gave a soft smile to Francesca. “I’m going to take a nap, Mom.  Thanks for the snacks—they were aces.”

“Glad you liked them, Kristen,” the dark-haired matron hummed happily, always pleased to get compliments from her more rebellious daughter. “Oh, before you go, like, what toppings do you want?”

The tired blonde mulled it over for a moment before answering, “Like, maybe pineapple?”

“That’s mad billy, sis,” Missy chuckled, her gelatinous belly quivering with each laugh.

“Whatever,” Kristen grumbled before storming off to her room.  Leave it to Melissa to ruin her good mood with her stupid slang and her gross, fat potbelly.  Gawd, she could be so annoying!

It was not until she got up to the bathroom that Kristen realized she had not only used some of her sister’s slang and Francesca’s Valley Girlisms, but she had even thought like her mom for a moment.  She splashed some cold water on her face to clear the cobwebs and took a long look at herself in the mirror.  The girl that looked back at her was not the same kickass crimefighter from a few weeks prior; she looked like an average girl, with an average girl’s weight problems. 

Her fingers pinched at her softening hips and she grimaced at how spongy she felt, and that disappointment grew as her fingers traced around to her rump.  Kristen cupped her hands under her rump and sighed when she realized how much wobble there was.  While she was never going to be as ripped as some of the other members of the Wolf Pack, the former Fang prided herself on being more toned than her peers at school.  After three years of training and fighting alongside the Wolf, her body was tight and she could have bounced a quarter off her booty.  A week and a half of nothing had undone all that hard work and left her softer than she had been even as a geeky nobody.

“I’ve got to find a hobby and get out of the house,” the suspended sidekick grumbled.  She brushed sandy blonde locks from her face as she took her second dose of medicine for the day. “If I stay cooped up here much longer, I’m totally going to wind up like my mom and Missy.  Starting tomorrow, I’m going to get back into training, Wolf-style, and then I’ll be back on top.  Like, piece of cake!”

Kristen paused as she heard herself slip again.  She glowered at her reflection and added, “And I’ve got to work on that.  I’m not about to sound like some airheaded ditz.”

***

“Like, come on, you stupid shorts!  You fit just fine last week!”

Unfortunately, making a promise is easier than keeping one, as Kristen found by the end of her third week at home.  Her vow to eat better and train again went right out the window over any number of factors: her body relishing the chance to sleep in after three years of working nights, her mother insisting on large meals ‘for energy’, and her ever-shrinking gym clothes.  She was currently struggling with a pair of cotton shorts that had fit her well enough during her sidekick days, but became increasingly tight as those days drifted into the past.

Getting them up her fluffy thighs had been a challenge enough, but her new saddlebags made it nigh impossible.  Despite letting the drawstring out as much as possible, the waistband could not overcome the swell of her hips, much less her bulbous backside.  Kristen grunted and groaned as though she was wrestling with a rogue, but she eventually managed to pull them up to her waist, albeit at the cost of tearing along the side.

“Aces,” the thickening girl huffed, her fingers poking the thigh chub that oozed through the tears in the fabric. “Add that to the list of things I can’t wear anymore.”

Kristen tore the shorts away as if they were stitched with Velcro and tossed them into an ever-growing pile near her door.  Despite her best intentions, the former sidekick was fast outgrowing her entire wardrobe; it was only a matter of days before even her biggest sweats and baggiest shirts could not contain her.  Left only in a shirt that clung to her like a second skin and a pair of panties fast disappearing between her cheeks, she looked herself over in the mirror and sighed dejectedly.

“This is getting totally ridiculous,” she mused. “What is this—second puberty?”

Once so flat and lean that she had been mistaken for a boy, Kristen had blossomed into full, feminine curves in just a few short weeks.  Every one of her bras ached and bit her like an angry beast as they struggled to contain the plump melons she had grown, and they left nasty, red marks in her padded shoulders.  Her ropy arms were soft to the touch, and a test poke of her bicep revealed there was nothing there but fluff.  The only consolation was that her stomach had not blown up with the rest of her upper body, though it was still far squishier than she would have liked.  There was just enough pudge to pinch, but compared to what lay below, her tummy was downright concave.

Those troublesome thighs and hips were getting more problematic by the day as the former grew closer and the latter spread outwards.  Her thighs were as big around as a cross country runner, except that there was little in the way of muscle underneath all her bulk—just more pale, pasty flab.  The two puffy pillars had begun nuzzling against each other a few days prior, and they touched further and further down her leg as the summer dragged on.  Likewise, her saddlebags had grown to the point that she could no longer rest her arms straight at her side; they were forced to sit at a slight angle.  They, combined with a butt that warranted its own zip code, were the bane of her existence, and she wished she could find Madame Zero to freeze them off with her chill-tech.

“Knock-knock,” Francesca cooed as she opened Kristen’s door, “like, guess who made triple chocolate chip muffins?”

Kristen squeaked in surprise and tried to hide what she could of her underwear. “Oh my gawd, Mom, you have to actually knock!”

“Um, sweetie, you’ve got nothing your Mama hasn’t seen before,” the older woman chuckled as she set a plate of muffins on her daughter’s desk. “And I’ve totally seen you in way less, you know.”

Bemused, Kristen crossed her arms over her chest, only to shift them down beneath her lardy mounds when she realized how uncomfortable that was. “Whatever.  Thank you for the muffins.”

“Anything for my little cupcake,” Francesca hummed happily.  She turned to wiggle her way out of the room, only to stop when she saw the pile of clothes sitting by the door. “Krissy, like, what’s all this?”

The former Fang was already halfway through a warm, gooey muffin when she replied, “They’re just clothes that, like, don’t fit me anymore.  I stick the dryer—I mean, I blame the dryer.”

It was obvious for anyone with half a brain that it was not the machine, but Francesca Laree was never known for deep thinking.  She nodded and remarked, “We’ve totally got to take you shopping, Krissy—like, I think this is half your dresser and closet here.  How about we make a girl’s day out of it?”

Kristen wanted to argue that she did not need to go shopping—that this was only temporary, and that she would soon be able to fit all those clothes again in no time.  Besides, the last thing she wanted was to spend all day with her shopaholic sister; even if she had nothing better to do, she would rather die than be dragged around the mall from open to close.  Her argument never came, whether it was because her mouth was full of muffin or because she knew that she had to do it at some point.  Francesca must have accepted her silence as an affirmative, because she waddled out with a smile on her face.  It had been so long since Kristen had spent this much time with her—she just had to make the most of it before she left for school!

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2 hours ago, Batman76 said:

Oh wow, what an update! Glad we can see dinner hour Glass curves too

Thanks!  I want to try and do different physiques all around, so you'll never know how each gain is going to go.  Maybe Faux Wonder Woman will be a total pear, or maybe Not She-Hulk will be all tits.  Variety is the spice of life, after all!

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41 minutes ago, CyrilFiggus said:

Thanks!  I want to try and do different physiques all around, so you'll never know how each gain is going to go.  Maybe Faux Wonder Woman will be a total pear, or maybe Not She-Hulk will be all tits.  Variety is the spice of life, after all!

A busty, super strong woman getting so top heavy she can't stand with her muscles going increasingly week and a busty, superstrong woman getting an ass so big it gets stuck in doors while her bust drops a cup size every thirty pounds (somehow) are about equally appealing to me

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15 minutes ago, Batman76 said:

A busty, super strong woman getting so top heavy she can't stand with her muscles going increasingly week and a busty, superstrong woman getting an ass so big it gets stuck in doors while her bust drops a cup size every thirty pounds (somehow) are about equally appealing to me

Then I think you're going to like what happens to Not Power Girl, among many other heroines/villainesses!

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((And we're back, with another installment of Kristen Laree's, Ex-Sidekick and Ex-Tremely Unfit.  The last we saw her, she was in need of some new clothes, and our story today will see her get not only a new wardrobe, but a whole new lease on life.  What's to become of the former Fang?  Read on, true believers, and you'll see for yourselves...))

FANG--THE GIRL WADDLER, PART 3

Though she held out hope for a change in schedule up to the final hour, Kristen found herself piling into the family van on a trip to the Arboretum—the number one mall in Cedar Oaks.  It had been forever since she went out shopping with her mother and especially with her sister, be it embarrassment with the former and frustration with the latter.  The former sidekick had better things to do than spend all day shopping, much less with her airheaded mother, who was totally embarrassing, and her deadbeat, clueless sister.  Getting ready for their little excursion involved steeling herself as though she was getting ready to face the Aconite, not a trip to The Gap.

“All right, girls, we’re on, like a mission today,” Francesca told her daughters as they made their way into the busy mall. “We’re here to get Krissy—”

“Kristen,” the once Fang corrected, puffing a lock of blonde hair out of her face.  Since her mother was so absentminded, Kristen had been letting those corrections slip lately, but she wanted to remind Francesca that she never wanted to be called ‘Krissy’ again.

“Sorry, sweetie,” the dark haired matron replied with an apologetic smile. “Like, we’re here to get Kristen some new clothes, okay?  Missy, that means no wandering off, umkay?”

Missy rolled her eyes and scoffed, “Ch’yeah, figure I like spending my weekend playing fashion doctor to chicken legs.”

“And Kristen, that means, like, no trips to the bookstore, kay?” Francesca told her youngest daughter, knowing full well that at a moment’s glance, Kristen would be hiding in one of the alcoves at the Book Nook. “Like, if you’re both super good, I’ll buy you whatever you want at the food court for lunch.  How does that sound?”

Kristen wished that the reward for this exhausting torture would be a new book or game, but she was not so inclined to turn down a trip to the food court as she used to be.  Ever since her appetite picked up, food was so much more appealing than it once was; it was as if she was blind and could see again.  When they walked through the mall, her nose picked up the delectable aromas of burgers grilling, potatoes frying, and pizzas baking, among so many other delicious dishes.  Despite having a full breakfast and a little snack on the way out the door, the young girl’s stomach growled and demanded satisfaction.

“Like, hush,” she quietly chided her soft tummy, rubbing her hand along her squishy abs. “You can hold out for a little longer.”

Unfortunately, her stomach continued to rumble, and it was not long before Francesca took notice.  She asked, “Um, Kristen, do you need a snack while we’re shopping?”

“No, I’m good, Mom,” the former sidekick fibbed.  She did not need something to munch on, especially since lunch was so close, but her belly was extremely verbal in its desires.

“My stomach’s going mad billy, Mom,” Missy butted in, as she was wont to do. “We’re talking balls hungry, Mom.  Balls.  Hungry.”

“Like, watch your language, Missy,” Francesca frowned at her youngest daughter. “I could totally go for a pretzel though—maybe even two.  Krissy, you used to love the pretzels at Auntie Ann’s—want to get one for old time’s sake?”

Kristen knew that she should not get anything—that what she really needed was to go on a diet—but between the insistence of her mother and the growling of her stomach, she relented.  For all her protestations, she picked a pepperoni pretzel and a medium soda and happily munched away as she followed her family to the first store.  She had forgotten how good pretzels could be, especially when doctored with cheese and pepperoni; they were just one of many snacks she had forsaken once she became a vigilante.  Now that she had no choice but to relax and enjoy herself, she would have to make a few more trips to see if the rest of the menu was as good as she remembered.

The women made for quite the sight while marching towards their destination: Francesca and Missy led the way, and Kristen followed behind them because of their combined width, lest they all block off the walkways around the mall.  The matron of the bunch strutted around in surprisingly sturdy high heels and her dark hair teased into a sea of curls, and somehow squeezed herself into a polka dot jumper that creaked with every swing of her massive thighs.  Her black stockings were stretched so thin over her mattress thighs that they were invisible, and her cankles threatened to ooze out of her shoes.  While she was wildly plump all over, her pounds favored her lower body over the years, turning the fashionista into a massive pear that needed two chairs to sit comfortably.

Then there was her overfed, lazier daughter, whose gains largely went to her upper body, especially in her doughy middle.  Missy’s outfit was meant to show some skin, covered though it was by a chiffon cover-up, but there was no way her clothes could contain her sheer girth.  Her ham hock arms were squeezed out of her sweater vest like biscuit dough from a tube, and though the sweater vest was not cropped, it was not made to cover a belly quite like Missy’s.  She let herself be comfortable and allowed her gut to flop over her checkerboard skirt, which revealed a good swath of pale, creamy thighs.  Her bleached blonde hair fell to her shoulders in waves, one more sign that while Missy neglected her weight and figure, she always made sure her look was on point.

At the back and happily munching on her pretzel was Kristen, who was stuck wearing a tracksuit she used for training.  Ordinarily, she felt like she was swimming in the material, but after putting on lord knows how many pounds in the past month, it was actually getting snug.  Her stomach was still the least of her worries, as it just barely stuck out from her middle; unfortunately, what her tummy lacked in flab, the rest of her body made up for in spades.  She could feel so much of her once lean figure bouncing and quivering as she walked, as if she had been pumped full of jelly while she was sleeping.  Her breasts were uncomfortably crammed into the most forgiving bra she had, and her hips now had an unintentionally sensual sway, so great was their girth.

“Gawd, these are so good,” the former sidekick cooed after a gulp of soda, “though I should probably go light on lunch after this.  If I keep eating like this, I’ll need a whole new wardrobe, like, by the time I go to school!”

“Oh, it’s just comfort fluff, sweetie,” Francesca assured her youngest daughter as they neared their destination. “Like, if anyone needs to watch their weight, it’s your mama.”

“You’re still all chicken legs, spud,” Missy remarked in her best attempt at consolation. “Don’t know what you’re glitchin’, but figure you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Kristen wanted to argue that she had not had chicken legs for some time, but especially not after putting on a few dozen pounds since the end of the school year.  When she saw Missy’s attention go to her phone though, she stifled her retort with another bite of pretzel and a mouthful of soda.  Perhaps she should not worry so much about her weight; there were so many other things she needed to prepare for before she left for school.  She would just need to stick to her promise to work out more, and then surely, she would be going to university in peak form again.

By the time the trio had reached their destination, they had all wolfed down their pretzels and drinks, yet their stomachs were far from satisfied.  Francesca looked back at her daughters and told them, “Okay, girls, let’s try to, like, not take too long in here—I’m totally starving right now.  Let’s see…oh, let’s ask this lovely young lady for some help!  Excuse me!”

The matron waved down a tall sales clerk who was busy stocking a table.  When Francesca called out to her, the ebony girl brushed her braided hair over her shoulder and put on her best smile. “Hi there!  How can I help you, ma’am?”

Francesca wrapped a meaty arm around Kristen’s shoulder and pulled her in close, cutting off any chance of escaping her embarrassing mother. “Hi, um…Denise.  My Krissy here is getting ready to leave for school in a couple months, and, like, she’s got nothing that fits!”

“Mom, come on,” Kristen grumbled while fidgeting in her mother’s grasp.

“Oh, you should see the pile of clothes that don’t work anymore,” the oblivious Francesca giggled. “I saw it and thought, ‘Oh my gawd, it’s like a mountain!’”

Denise chuckled as Kristen turned a bright red and wished the floor would swallow her up.  She looked over the former sidekick and told her, “I think I can help you get some new things together.  Do you have a particular style?”

When she managed to wrestle herself free of her mother’s smothering side hug, Kristen answered, “Like, not really.  I’ve always just gone for whatever was comfortable, y’know?  Figure anything’s fine so long as it fits.”

The associate nodded and replied, “Understandable.  Let’s see if we can’t find some clothes that’ll really work with you, okay, Krissy?”

“Kristen,” she corrected under her breath.  Bad enough that her mother could not get it right—now, perfect strangers were using that stupid nickname.  She wondered why she even bothered with correcting people if everyone was just going to use it anyway.

What followed should have been one of the most painful experiences of Kristen’s life, right up there with being tortured by Mr. Friendly and the Quandary at the same time.  Yet as she perused the aisles with Denise and her family, she felt more curious than anything else.  It was as if she had stepped into the store for the very first time, even though she had been coming there for years.  When she went to the department store, she kept things very simple and straightforward, never really deviating from what she already had.  Now, everything seemed to catch her eye, and she wondered what she would look like in this top, that skirt, or those jeans.  It was too much for her, so she followed the clerk’s decision and accepted whatever was given to her.

“You’ve got a great body, so you’ll want something that really emphasizes your assets,” Denise explained to Kristen as she pulled various items from the racks. “Let’s see…you’re about a Size 8, yeah?”

The once Fang blushed at the question and bit back a snappy retort.  She could not have been any bigger than a Size 6; she had not been away from the superhero game that long, right?  Still, it was probably a good idea to get a size up, just for the sake of comfort.  Surely that was what Denise was talking about!

By the time they reached the fitting rooms, Kristen’s arms were full of a wardrobe’s worth of clothes and she could barely see around them.  Denise opened the door for her, and as she vanished inside, she could hear her mother calling out, “Just let me know what you like, Krissy, and it’s all yours!”

“This is, like, way too much, Mom,” the young girl replied.  She felt overwhelmed as she looked over the pile of clothes, but more than anything, she felt like a kid at Christmas.  So many colorful, cute, and cool choices lay in front of her, and she wanted to take them all home with her.

When she realized how much she was thinking like her sister, Kristen snapped her wristband against her skin and scolded herself, “Oh my gawd, Kristen, just chill.  You’re acting mad billy—just pick the first things you see and, like, split.”

With her mind made up, Kristen shucked off her tracksuit and t-shirt, which was no easy task when her breasts acted as a natural buffer.  She took a moment to marvel at herself in the mirror, weigh one of her plump breasts, and run a hand along the outward swell of her hips.  If there was one positive to this recent growth spurt, it was that no one could ever mistake her for a boy again.  The little devil on her shoulder wished that she was still part of the Wolf Pack, just so she could flaunt her new ‘assets’ to Wolf-Girl and get payback for all those taunts about being a surfboard.

“She’d be totes jealous,” Kristen snickered to herself as she slid on the first set of clothes—a pair of hip-hugger jeans and a camisole top.  The camisole was light and breezy, perfect after struggling with her shirts the last several days, and they presented a perfect view of her constantly expanding cleavage.  The jeans, though snug, were not unbearable to wear; she could even close the button on them!  If there was one downside, it was that they pinched around her bubbly backside, and a quick glance in the mirror showed that she was all but poured into them.

“But, like, isn’t that a good thing?” she asked as she studied herself in the mirror. 

The sidekick slowly turned this way and that, inspecting herself from every angle and actually liking what she saw.  They were cute clothes and Kristen looked cute in them; they made her feel like a pop star, not some geek who decided to put on a costume and fight crime one night.  So what if they made her look a little thicker than she would have liked?  All the real celebrities had curves these days, as she had learned from watching so many movies and TV shows with her mother and sister lately.  There were plenty of classical words to describe herself now—statuesque, Rubenesque, or zaftig, to name a few—but there was only one on the tip of Kristen’s tongue.

“I look hawt,” the dirty blonde remarked with a toothy grin. “Like, I wonder if everything else will look this good!”

Just like that, Kristen completely forgot her earlier promise to herself and tried on each and every item.  A handkerchief top and a box-pleat skirt; a tube top and daisy dukes; crop tops and capris; there were so many items and so many combinations!  She even experimented with wearing a few tops with her tracksuit and even those looked good on her.  Despite never being fashion-minded before this, the former sidekick took to designing like a fish to water.  Now she knew why Missy spent all day shopping sometimes; Kristen could have easily spent the rest of the afternoon in that dressing room.

“Krissy, are you, like, almost finished?” her mother called out to her. “It’s lunchtime, and I think your sister is totally hungry enough to eat her phone right now.”

“Aw, man,” the wannabe fashionista grumbled. “Okay, Mom—like, I think I’m ready.”

After changing back into her tacky tracksuit and boring t-shirt, Kristen took one last look in the mirror.  She ran her fingers through her hair and down her shapely cheeks as she studied every little flaw she came across.  It was a miracle she had not been picked on more in school—she looked totally drab and blasé!  Maybe she could talk her mom into a visit to the salon and some tips on make-up; that way, she would be looking super fetch by the time she got to school.

“Get dusted, Old Kristen,” the girl hummed as she flipped her hair over her shoulder. “New school, new me!”

***

It felt good to get a whole new wardrobe, but Kristen did not care for lugging around said wardrobe as she made her way to the food court.  There were four large bags in all, and she had to carry each one, which was surprisingly difficult for the girl who used to run across rooftops and tackle goons twice her size.  She was sorely out of practice from taking the last few weeks off, and her Gargoyle-prescribed medication did not help at all.  It was a reminder that she needed to work out again, though she tempered it with the added notion that the more she worked out, the easier it would be to maintain her newfound curves.

“All right, girls, I think we’ve totally earned ourselves a treat,” Francesca told her daughters. “Like, what does everyone want for lunch?”

“I’m jonesin’ for a cheeseburger,” Missy greedily snorted, “with extra fries and a milkshake.”

Just as she had in the store, Kristen could not decide what she wanted; she was bombarded with so many delectable aromas, it was impossible to choose which was better.  Finally, her eyes fell on a cheesesteak vendor, and even though she could practically see the grease dripping from the sandwiches, she did not care.  The smell of sizzling beef, melty cheese, and sautéed vegetables made her fluffy stomach growl with approval.  Maybe the old Kristen would have scoffed at such a place, but not the new, fun-loving Kristen who was going to live a little.

“Like, could I get a deluxe cheesesteak with all the works?  With chips and the biggest cup of root beer they have?” the former sidekick sweetly asked her mother.

“Of course, Krissy!” Francesca happily replied, glad to see her daughter have an appetite for a change. “Like, go help your sister find a table, and I’ll get the food.”

As Kristen sashayed after Missy, she felt a swell of something run through her.  She was not sure what it was, but it made her feel good—better than she had in weeks.  Maybe getting kicked off the team was the best thing to ever happen to her, something she could never have imagined herself thinking a few weeks prior. Now, she could finally discover who she was truly meant to be, be that a vigilante or the hottest girl on campus…

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  • 2 weeks later...

((As a wise man once said, better late than never!  Sorry for the delay on this one, faithful readers, but know that Yours Truly is only human and prone to falling behind on deadlines.  That said, I think you're going to like this new chapter, or my name's Aloysius--and it's not.  But let's not waste any more time--dig in, true believers!)) 

FANG--THE GIRL WADDLER, PART 4

After nearly a month in Washington DC fighting for better conditions on local reservations, Santigo Laree had finally come home to Cedar Oaks.  Driving into town reminded him of how things had generally improved since the Wolf had declared war on the sinister forces that plagued the small town.  While he did not agree with some of the vigilante’s more violent tendencies, he could not deny that there were some things only the mystery man and his pack of companions could handle.  In fact, Santigo could count himself one of the lucky few to be an outside ally of the Wolf Pack; it did not make him privy to their secret identities, save one, but he could always call on them in a pinch.  Thankfully, he had not needed to summon them but twice before, but that would change when he got home.

Santigo paused at the doorstep to readjust the gifts he came bearing: chocolates from Francesca’s favorite shop, Missy’s favorite donuts, and a bag of Kristen’s favorite apple chips.  Once he had a purchase on everything, he threw open the door and announced, “Guess who’s back and brought snacks?”

“Like, is that my handsome man I hear?” Francesca called out from the living room.

“It most certainly is, my darling,” Santigo chuckled as he made his way to his wide wife.  He found her where he expected—planted on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in her lap, and watching a shmaltzy soap opera.  She had paused the show and was attempting to lift her bulk from the sofa, but he waltzed around so she would not need to stand.

After setting the treats on the coffee table, right on top of a stack of fashion and gossip magazines, Santigo leaned in and planted a long kiss on Francesca’s ruby lips.  She smiled when she felt the familiar tickle of his beard and pulled him in close against the curves of her voluptuous body.  They held their embrace for a blissful moment before they both came up for air, grinning like a couple of kids kissing behind the bleachers.

“Guess you must’ve totally missed me, Santigo,” Francesca purred, idle hands stroking along his shoulder blades.

“Every minute of every day, Frankie,” Santigo hummed as he ran a thumb over her soft cheeks. “As if the Rebb’s Chocolates didn’t say that.”

So caught up in her husband’s loving attention was Francesca that she had missed the hefty box of chocolates he carried in.  She licked her lips at the sight of the box before returning her attention to Santigo and cooing, “Like, let’s crack that open later tonight when I throw you a private ‘welcome home’ party.”

“I can’t wait,” the beefy man chuckled.

When he stood back up to full height, he shucked off his jacket and tossed it over one of the chairs.  As he loosened his tie and undid his cuffs, he glanced around and asked, “Where are the girls?”

“Oh, Missy’s helping Krissy, like, do her hair,” Francesca hummed contentedly as she tossed a few pieces of popcorn in her mouth.  She looked to the stairs and shouted, “Girls, your dad’s home!”

“We’ll be down in a sec, Mom!” Kristen called back.

Santigo’s eyebrow raised in curiosity.  He asked, “Missy doing Kristen’s hair?  Never thought I would hear that; I suppose you’ll tell me that pigs are flying too.”

Francesca giggled at the quip and replied, “Like, I know it sounds crazy, but those two have been totally getting along lately.  I don’t know what’s come over Krissy, but, like, she’s so much less grumpy than she used to be.”

“That’s great,” Santigo remarked with a warm grin.  He had seen the struggle Kristen had with her mother and especially her sister over the last several years, ever since she turned ten.  She stopped relating to Francesca and Missy and often went out of her way to avoid spending time with them, as if she would turn into them by hanging around.  Hopefully, her realizing that this was her last summer before she left for school had made her want to reconnect—better late than never, he supposed.

Eventually, Missy waddled downstairs and wrapped her ham hock arms around her father in a very squishy hug.  She greeted him with a lazy smile and told him, “Missed you, Pops.  Figure you liked being up there with all the suits than all the slicer-dicers here.”

“Believe me, Washington makes Cedar Oaks look like Pleasantville,” Santigo joked.  He stepped aside and allowed his doughball daughter access to the box of donuts just for her.  “Got your favorites on the way home.”

“Choice!” the butterball snorted happily as her eyes lit up with piggish glee.

While his oldest daughter started in on her gift, Santigo looked to the stairs and called out for his youngest, “I seem to be down one graduate—I wonder where she could be!”

“Coming right now!” replied Kristen as she ran down the hall.

When Santigo heard the thunderous footfalls, he had to double-check to make sure Missy and Francesca were actually in the room.  He was so used to Kristen being light on her feet, so much so that she always showed up unexpectedly, that he never expected her to sound so heavy.  Seeing her descend the stairs made him realize that it was not that she sounded heavy—she was heavy all over.  It took him a moment to recognize his youngest daughter, and not because she had died her hair a fiery shade of orange.

The only part of her that had not picked up any weight; it still had the same fine features, though her cheek bones were a tad less pronounced.  Everything changed from the neck down, starting with her shoulders and arms, which were well padded with fluff rather than sinewy muscles a few weeks prior.  Santigo did not dwell long on Kristen’s chest, but suffice to say, she could no longer be considered boyish; her mother’s genes must have finally caught up with her.  Her flat stomach was full and pooched over the waistband of her jeans, and though it was nowhere near as large as her sister’s, it was still far bigger than it had ever been before.  His eyes trailed down to her expansive hips and pillar-like legs, which ended in plump calves and the beginnings of cankles.

That change was shocking enough, but then came Kristen’s look, which was a far cry from her plain outfits he was used to.  She had squeezed herself into a t-shirt with a rhinestone cupcake on the front that read ‘Totes Sweet’ and a pair of acid-washed jeans, both of which were practically a second skin on her.  Then there was her make-up—namely, that she was wearing any at all.  Where the old Kristen had only used the basics to touch herself up, this version had gone heavy on the eyeshadow and applied a fine pink on her lips.  All of which was topped off by her mane of flaming locks, which framed both sides of her face and covered her forehead; ‘scenester’ was the best way to describe it.

“Wassup, Daddy?” Kristen hummed as she hugged her father tighter than she had in a long time.  “I totes missed you!”

“Um…I missed you too, pumpkin,” Santigo mumbled while he returned the hug.  It was brief, as he let go and held her at arm’s length to get another look at her stark change.  “That’s a…that’s quite a look, Kristen.  You feeling okay?”

“Like, she’s fine, Santigo,” Francesca assured her husband from her spot on the couch.  “Krissy’s just, like, finding herself before she goes to school.  It’s totally a girl thing; you so would not get it.”

Kristen nodded and backed up her mother, “Yeah, I’m a’ight, Daddy—never been better!  Ooh, are those chips?”

That raised another red flag in Santigo’s mind, as Kristen never went for the snacks he brought back with him—she always wanted to hear the details of his meetings and hearings.  At least her taste in snacks had stayed the same, or so he thought, because a look of disgust crossed her face when she picked up the bag.  The new redhead huffed, “Apple chips?  Ugh…like, no thanks.  Missy, gimme a donut.”

“Not even, spud,” the butterball blonde scoffed, mouth full of half a donut.  “Go get your own grindage.”

“You’re mad sucky,” Kristen retorted before stomping off to the kitchen to fill her stomach with something far more appealing and far less healthy than apple chips.

Santigo watched her storm out of the room before leaning over to whisper to Francesca, “Honey, what’s been going on here?  Did we get a new kid or something?”

“Uh, no, you silly man,” the overfed housewife giggled.  “Krissy’s just going through some changes right now, that’s all.”

These were more than just ‘some changes’, but Santigo was not about to argue that with his wife; much as he loved Francesca, it was difficult to get her to comprehend the glaringly obvious.  No one gained that much weight, got such a radical makeover, and changed their attitude in just a month—certainly not someone in a right state of mind.  Knowing the town he lived in, his mind immediately went to the worst case scenario of a supervillain somehow getting to his daughter, and he knew he had to act before this got any worse.

“I’m going to go get changed, but how about I get us some Wild East for dinner?” asked Santigo as he excused himself from the room.

“Like, that sounds radical, babe!” Francesca eagerly replied.  “Ooh…I could so go for some crab Rangoon right now…”

After making his way back to the bedroom and shutting the door, Santigo pulled his phone out and sent a message to the one member of the Wolf Pack he knew personally—the Jackal, who had helped him out of more than one jam.  He texted to the young man, “Think something’s wrong with my daughter.  Can you swing by and talk to her?

Anything for a friend,” the Jackal replied.  When do you want me to stop by?

Come over on the Fourth—we’re having a neighborhood cookout.

I’ll be there.  Let me know if anything changes.

Let’s hope not,” Santigo finished with a sigh.  He hoped that there was nothing wrong with Kristen, that this was just a phase she was going through—and if not, he hoped that the Wolf Pack could figure out what was wrong...

***

Kristen never much cared for the Fourth of July as she got older.  Becoming wiser to all the faults in the United States and the darker parts of its history had soured her on the holiday, and while she was not a flag-burner, she was not about to celebrate it.  That was why it was so shocking for Santigo when he saw his daughter in scanty daisy dukes with Stars and Stripes on the back and a crop top whose ‘God Bless the USA’ message was stretched tight over her bountiful bosom.  He was not sure what he was more shocked by: the new patriotic attire, the revealing clothes, or her escalating weight.

Somehow, Kristen seemed even plumper than she had when he came home just a few days ago.  Her cheeks were even softer now and a double chin formed whenever she bowed her head, and her arms looked like thick tubes of cookie dough.  Not that she seemed to notice though—Santigo had noticed that his daughter seemed much more distracted these days, especially when food was around.  He wondered if it were a good idea to have the Jackal stop by on this day, when there would be five grills going and dozens of grilled delights served up.

“Like, how do I look, Daddy?” asked Kristen, her tone spacey and husky, as if she were not entirely there. “Totally fetch, right?”

“Absolutely,” Santigo hummed in reply, not quite knowing what ‘fetch’ meant.

His daughter giggled and gave him a quick peck on the cheek.  “I’mma get me something to eat—I’m totes starving.”

“All right, sweetie, have fun,” Santigo told her as she sashayed out the door, looking away as her pudgy body tried to escape her skimpy clothes.  He glanced around the cul-de-sac for any signs of the Jackal in his civilian identity, and again wondered if the former Fang would be able to get through to his daughter.

Meanwhile, Kristen made her way straight to the nearest serving station and helped herself to a massive plate of barbeque, coleslaw, and onion rings.  Such an order would have once been enough to last her for the rest of the day, but under the influence of her ‘medication’, she would easily be able to wolf this down and go back for seconds.  The suspended sidekick swayed over to a free picnic table and was scooping her pulled pork onto a bun when someone slid in beside her and stole an onion ring.

“Like, what gives?” she grumbled before glancing over to the thief and squealing excitedly, “Oh my gawd, Phil!  Wassup?”

Phillip ‘Phil’ Griffin was the third Fang and the present Jackal, who worked closely with both the Wolf and her father.  He was built like a tennis player, with a body that did not have a shred of fat on it and abs that could grate cheese, and dark, curly hair that fell to his shoulders.  While he had once been a runt of a kid, easily the shortest member of the Young Champions, he hit a growth spurt in college and now towered over all of his former teammates.  The holiday found him going for a business casual look, with a comfy pair of slacks and a golf shirt that made him look like a prep from a bad 80s movie—all he was missing was a sweater draped over his shoulders.

“Hey there, Kristen,” Phil greeted his fellow Wolf Pack member.  “You’ve been doing well?  How’s post-high school life treating you?”

“It’s been a’ight,” the young girl answered with a shrug of her shoulders, which was a lot harder to do with the boulders that were her chest weighing her down.  “Like, what brings you around?  Figure there’s something going down on Old Buggy Court?”

Phil shook his head and swiped another onion ring before answering, “Nope, just wanted to see how you were doing.  Haven’t heard from you in a while, and we wanted to make sure you were okay.”

A gruff huff escaped Kristen’s lips at the answer.  Not a single word from anyone in the Wolf Pack since she got suspended, and they were just now checking in on her?   She grumbled, “Typical.  I’m doing dope, Phil—not that the big guy cares.”

“He cares more than you think,” Phil replied.  “That’s why he put you on the bench—to make sure you didn’t get hurt.”

“Or maybe it’s because he’s just sucky and does sucky things,” Kristen spat before tearing into her sandwich.  “Like, I’m so done with him; Wolf doesn’t want me to hang, so I’m splitting.”

Phil sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  He figured this would be difficult, but he had no idea Kristen would be this stubborn—nor this hungry, as he watched her wolf down her sandwich like it was nothing.  After clearing his throat, he told her, “All right, I’ll say it—we’re worried that there might be something wrong with you after you got captured by the Gargoyle.”

“I’m super fine, Phil,” replied an increasingly grumpy Kristen as she bit into an onion ring and sucked the diced veggie from its fried coat.  “I’ve, like, never been better; I think I’d know if I was billy.”

“Do you even hear yourself?” asked Phil.  “Have you looked in a mirror?  I didn’t even recognize you when I got here, and it’s my entire job to recognize people in disguise, Kristen.”

The former sidekick scoffed, “Your problem, dawg, not mine.”

“It’s like you’re a whole other person, Kristen, and I’m thinking that the Gargoyle has done a lot more to you than Julia or William thought,” Phil told the increasingly incredulous girl.  “Let’s put down the food and get you back to the Den so we can run a few more tests, and—”

“Gawd, Phil, just leave me alone!” Kristen hissed at the young man.  “The Wolf made it very clear he didn’t want me around, and you know what?  I say he can shiv off!  And you can shiv off too if you think that there’s anything wrong with me.  I’m, like, better than I’ve ever been—totes more than when I was jumping off rooftops and getting aced every other night.  So you tell him that I’m done—Krissy Laree is her own girl now, and she’s done with the hero game!”

With that, Krissy got up from the table and jiggled off to get more food, leaving a bewildered and perturbed Phil behind.  He was left to wonder what the Gargoyle had done to the former Fang, and if there was anything left of the old girl before she was gone forever.

((Can it be?  A cliffhanger in Capes and Cuisines?  That's right, friends--Fang's story was too big to be contained to a mere four parts.  We'll check back in with her in the future, but first things first, we're going to start a new story next Wednesday!  Get ready for a trip to Arcane City with QUEEN CUISINE, true believers--you won't want to miss it!))

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4 hours ago, butterboy said:

Each part is better than the last. Kristen is my favorite now. Thanks for the chapter

Thank you!  I'm glad you enjoyed Kristen--of the protagonists so far, she's easily my favorite as well.  It'll be a while before we check back in with her, but I hope you enjoy the other characters on the way!

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((And we're back with a brand new story!  This month, we're going to Arcane City to meet a criminal fresh out of prison.  What's she going to do with her fresh start?  You'll just have to read on, true believers, because we won't spoil anything here!  Sit back and enjoy!))

QUEEN CUISINE, PART ONE

It had been a long fifteen years in Cherrywood Penitentiary, but Camilla Cooke, the notorious Queen Cuisine was free once more.  She had been an aspiring super-criminal on the streets of Arcane City, though she was more of a mischief-maker than some of her contemporaries and was little more than a headache for the local police and vigilante, the Geist.  Her biggest claim to fame had been tainting the food at a banquet and fattening up Arcane’s elite until they were too bloated to protect their purses and wallets.  No one ever got hurt during her heists, barring the occasional allergic reaction, so she always got away with a slap on the wrist and a tongue lashing from Geist.

All that changed on the events of Black Fat Tuesday, when the city’s hero had been found bludgeoned to death and left in Eisner Park for all to see.  Despite her previous record, all signs pointed to Queen Cuisine and she accepted her plight without a word.  Pleading guilty to the murder had reduced her sentence to life, and she soon found any number of ways to cut it down even further.  In her time at Cherrywood, Camilla performed any number of odd jobs but primarily worked within the kitchen, where she was able to do the impossible and make prison food tasty.  Between her good behavior and a few stints with a black-ops task force, she managed to get her sentence reduced to the point where she was walking out on her 43rd birthday.

After taking her last shower in Cherrywood, the reformed criminal was led to a changing room to switch out her bland jumpsuit for a plain pair of black slacks and a white blouse.  Camilla was proud to find that she had maintained the same size when she first walked in—in fact, she had even lost a little weight.  While she still had a thick build, her bulk made her seem less like a jolly chef and more like a weightlifter, to the point that she felt she might burst through the pre-ordered outfit like the Brute.  She gave herself a quick check in a mirror, fluffed her dark, curly hair, and gave a nod of approval, ready to face the outside world once more.

“You take care of yourself out there, Camilla,” Warden Cartwright told the parolee as he walked her out.  “You’ve been nothing but an inspiration around here, and I wish all the best for you.”

“Oh, yer a doll, Logan,” Camilla replied in her nasally Boston accent.  “Say hit to the missus for me, will ya?  And if she ever wants another batch of recipes, ya know where to find me!”

After collecting her belongings and blowing the elderly warden a kiss, the former criminal waltzed out the door and down the fenced walkway to freedom.  Though she had spent plenty of time outside while incarcerated, the sun felt warmer and shined brighter on her ebony skin and she swore that she could hear birds chirping a melody.  Camilla stretched her arms over her head and let out a blissful sigh as she stepped through the exit and into the outside world, a free woman once more.  It felt incredible to have freedom with no strings attached now that the bomb fused to her spine had been deactivated and dismantled.  Barring the conditions of her parole, she was free to do as she pleased.

And the first thing she did was hug her family for the first time in a long time.  Waiting in the parking lot were her brother, Ron, his wife, Heidi, and their three kids, Maxine, Sarah, and Tyler.  They had visited often throughout the years, but even with her good behavior, Camilla had not been able to interact with them without a sheet of glass between them.  Tears welled up in her eyes and a lump filled her throat as she walked out to greet them all.

Ron was the first to reach her, though the others were close behind.  Despite the fact that the kids had never known a life without their aunt behind bars, they had grown up with her all the same and could not have been happier to have their Aunt Cammy out.  Likewise, Heidi missed her old gal pal, having lived vicariously through her more adventurous and excitable sister-in-law.  They all had their reasons for missing Camilla, and they wasted no time in expressing that.

“Never thought this day would come, Sis,” Ron remarked as he wrapped his sister in a bear hug and held her close.  Bear hug was accurate, as he was a large man in height and weight, but he was little more than a big teddy bear.  “But you’re here, I’m here…you’re really here!”

Camilla stifled a happy sob, embraced her older brother, and squeezed him tight.  She laughed, “Ah, they couldn’t keep me forever…I’m too nice for that place.”

“Damn straight,” Ron laughed and released Camilla to wipe his cheeks of tears.

Before the ex-villain had a chance to recover, her nieces and nephew swarmed her and all but tackled her to the ground.  So excited were they that they talked over each other, creating a cacophony of well wishes, questions, and other things Camilla could not make out.  She did her best to wrap her arms around all three as she told them, “Come on, guys, one at a time!  Oldest to youngest—go!”

“Oh my gawd, oh my gawd, oh my gawd,” Maxine squealed in delight.  She was the tallest of her siblings and had the firm, thick build of a softball player; if her hair were not so straight, she could have passed for a clone of Camilla.  Being a toddler at the time of Camilla’s incarceration, she had vague memories of her aunt outside of prison, and held onto the few things she could recall.  “I’m just—I’m not—and you’re—I missed you, Aunt Cammy!  I can’t believe you’ll actually be able to see me graduate!”

“Were they nice to you?  Did anyone say goodbye?” asked the soft-spoken, sweet-natured Sarah.  She was much the opposite of Maxine: shortest of her siblings, thin as a twig, and bookish rather than athletic.  It had taken some time getting used to seeing her aunt incarcerated, but once she realized Camilla was nothing like some of the scarier villains she saw on TV, she grew to adore her.  “I made you cupcakes with that recipe you gave me last Christmas!”

“You’ve got to see what we’ve done with the house!” Tyler exclaimed.  Despite being the baby of the family, he was almost as big as Maxine and twice as large around, which might have served him well in football had he not decided to pursue band.  He was as loud as the trumpet he played so well, and he could not wait to perform his favorite (and only) aunt.  “We’ve redone the whole place and we’ve got a bedroom made up and—”

“And I can’t wait to see it, baby,” Camilla interrupted and planted a kiss on her nephew’s forehead.  “Now, let yer mother through—I need to catch up with my old roomie!”

No sooner had the children separated than Heidi took Camilla’s hands and screeched with glee, which the former villainess did in return.  The two of them hugged each other so tight that they could have broken their ribs, but they were too ecstatic to care.  Heidi had managed to stay in good shape over the years, being far too active in taking care of her kids to put on serious weight.  It also helped that after being deprived of Camilla’s cooking, food just did not have the same appeal as it once did.

“I know we saw each other all the time, but, girl, we have got some serious catching up to do,” Heidi remarked with glee.  “You’re absolutely coming with me to my next book club meeting—the girls are going to love you!”

“Book clubs?  Since when did ‘Miss Life of the Party’ do book clubs?” Camilla teased her old friend, knowing full well that Sarah got her quiet nature from her mother.

“Since staying up past eleven became impossible,” Heidi cackled with laughter, “but for you, I might just make an exception.  We’ve got a party with some friends in the neighborhood—you should come!”

Camilla patted Heidi on the shoulder and smiled brightly.  “Maybe once I’ve got my bearings, hon,” she told her sister-in-law.  “First things first, let’s get back home so I can see this guest room that Tyler’s so proud of, and then I’m whipping everyone up some good eats!”

As the family made their way back to the van, the former villainess took one last look at the prison that had been her home for fifteen years.  So many countless hours spent longing for freedom, biding her time with menial tasks, and trying to survive, and she had finally made it to the outside world once more.  There were a thousand and one things she wanted to do, but they could all wait another day—Camilla had far more important matters that day.

***

A week later, Ron took Camilla into the heart of downtown Arcane City and she could not believe how much things had changed since she had been locked up.  It was one thing to see it on the news or hear about it from visits, but it was another to see the desperation and hopelessness in person.  There were so many derelict buildings that it was impossible to tell which ones were abandoned or inhabited, once decent neighborhoods were left to ruin, and impressive factories were crumbling relics of a time gone by.  Arcane had not been a shimmering Xanadu in its prime, but ever since the Geist—the last beacon of hope—had died, it had all gone to Hell in a handbasket.

At last, they reached a building that had largely remained untouched by the decay of the city—a sign that its occupants were able to afford upkeep.  Ron pulled to a stop and looked to his sister with concern as he asked her, “You sure you want to do this?”

“Mona’s an old friend, Ron,” Camilla assured her brother with a pat on the shoulder.  “We go way back in the villainy game.  I’m just going to chat with her for a bit, that’s all.”

“Okay, but when you finish, just text me and wait in the lobby; I don’t want you waiting outside like you’ve got a target on your back.”

“Ya worry too much, ya know that?” the former criminal giggled.  She retrieved a picnic basket from the backseat and waggled her fingers in farewell.  “I’ll be back—with money!”

After bidding her brother goodbye, Camilla waltzed up the front steps and into a sleek, modern building that reminded her of an Apple store.  She fidgeted with her pink pantsuit, straightening out what she thought were wrinkles and buttoning and unbuttoning the coat any number of times.  Once she settled on a relaxed look, she skipped over to the secretary, who looked like a mannequin come to life—which was not out of the question in Arcane City.

“How can I help you, ma’am?” asked the young woman in a well-practiced tone.

“I’ve got an appointment with Mona Warr,” Camilla told the secretary.  “Could ya be a doll and let her know that Camilla Cooke is here?  Better yet, tell her it’s Queenie!”

“Of course,” the secretary replied with a patient reply.  She tapped an earpiece and said, “Ms. Warr, your 11:30 appointment is here.  Yes, Ms. Cooke.  Mhm…all right, I’ll send her up.”

After tapping her earpiece again, she glanced to Camilla and told her, “Ms. Warr will see you now, Ms. Cooke.”

“Ooh…Ms. Warr,” the former criminal hummed.  “Fancy, fancy.  Thank ya, dear—can I offer ya a treat for yer help?”

“Oh, I really couldn’t,” the secretary replied with a shake of her hand, but Camilla was having none of that.  The villainess pulled a black and white cookie and napkin from her basket and put it down on the desk.

“I insist,” Camilla told the girl with a wink.  “Tata for now!”

Mona’s office was on the 84th floor, which gave Camilla a chance to reflect on her former partner in crime.  Back in the day, Mona Warr had been a debutante criminal known as the Jellyfish, which came from her cold demeanor, colorful and flowing dresses, and parasols that were tipped with poisons and paralyzing chemicals.  She was a Southern belle that came from a small Appalachian town and dreamed of making it big, which she certainly did—it was hard to ignore a woman who paraded around in clothes that were 200 years out of fashion, after all.  Between that and her predilection for stealing anything related to the ocean, she became one of the most well-known criminals in Arcane City.

Camilla became friends with her when they were cellmates once upon a time, and the two pulled a number of heists before the former Queen Cuisine was locked up.  Despite how close they once were, Mona never visited her a single time nor tried to help her escape, but that was to be expected.  After all, no one built a criminal empire by caring about their friends on the inside, no matter how long they had known each other.

When she finally reached Mona’s office, Camilla waved to a second secretary before throwing the door open and crying out, “Mona, baby—yer Queen is here!”

“I can see that,” the Jellyfish grunted in reply.  “Take a seat, Camilla.”

The office was large, opulent, and just as aquatic-themed as Camilla had imagined, with one fish tank built into the wall and another built into Mona’s desk.  Several display cases of crystal coral were scattered around the room, and the jaws of a megalodon were mounted around the inside of the door.  Behind Mona was a massive window that offered the perfect view of the city below, assuming there was anything to actually look at.  None of this caught Camilla’s attention though—she was far more interested in the changes to the Jellyfish.

Mona was a natural blonde, but a few gray hairs had crept into her golden locks and dimming their shine.  Likewise, her round face had grown shallow and wrinkly, with her skin having the leathery look that only years of tanning could do.  A pair of glasses sat perched on her narrow nose while she pored over papers arranged in front of her.  It was a stark reminder that no one Camilla knew was a spring chicken anymore, least of all herself.

The greatest change did not make itself apparent until Mona finally deemed to stand up, but only to adjust the blinds behind her.  When Camilla was sent away, the Jellyfish was extremely cornfed and had a bouncy backside that even her flowing gowns could not disguise.  Now, she looked like she subsisted on a diet of seaweed and plankton, so gaunt and lean had she become.  Mona’s expensive suit was tailor-made to fit her bony body, which meant that Camilla could see how sharp and angular the once soft and plump criminal had become.

“Geez, Mona, what’cha been eating?  I could pick my teeth with ya,” Camilla could not help but remark, which earned her a sharp glare from her former compatriot.

“Did you only come here to make cracks about my diet, Camilla?  Because I’m extremely busy, and I only made room in my schedule because of our history,” Mona droned as she sat back down at her desk.

Camilla sucked on her lip while she found a seat.  She mumbled, “Still don’t have a sense of humor, I see.  Well, that’s fine…I can talk brass tacks.  Put simply, Mona, I need your help getting a loan.”

Mona folded her bony fingers and leaned forward in her seat as she told Camilla, “Go on.”

After clearing her throat and fidgeting with her suit again, Camilla explained, “I’ve got a lot of things I want to do, Mona, but no way to really pull them off without some cash.  No one’s going to want to invest in me, so I was wondering if ya might be able to pull some strings and help me get my feet.”

The Jellyfish was silent as she considered the request.  Sweat beaded on Camilla’s forehead as the seconds ticked by, and she began to wonder if she had made a bad decision in coming.  Thankfully, her fears were quelled when her old companion sighed and said, “All right, I’ll get you set up with one of my banks, but I expect to be paid on a timely basis and in full.  Do we have an agreement?”

“Absolutely, Jelly,” Camilla hummed happily.  She reached out to shake Mona’s hand, only to retract when it was clear that the hardened criminal was not in the mood.  Instead, Mona turned to her computer and quickly typed out a message, all while Camilla squirmed in her seat in anticipation.

“May I ask what I’m spending my money on?” asked Mona after a pregnant pause.

“I want to open my own café,” Camilla admitted, “which is another reason why I could only come to ya, Mona, since most people won’t let me anywhere near food.  I brought a sample of the menu I’m working on—mind if I share a little with ya?”

Mona glanced at the picnic basket in her ex-partner’s hands and caught a whiff of the delectable aromas contained within.  She had nothing but two cups of coffee that morning, and now that her stomach was presented with real food, it was not going to be denied.  It seemed that all her time in the inside had failed to dull Camilla’s culinary skills.

“Why don’t you leave me a few things and I’ll pick away at them, or maybe share them with the staff?” asked Mona.  She retrieved a piece of paper from her printer and handed it to Camilla in exchange for a slice of lemon pound cake, a bagel with all the works, and a chocolate muffin the size of a softball.  The urge to drool over the delicacies was strong, but Mona managed to restrain herself as she explained, “Take that to the bank at the top and they’ll get you set up.”

“Oh, yer such a doll, Mona,” Camilla cooed as she made her way out the door.  Her lips curled in a subtle smirk as she caught Mona eyeballing the desserts as expected.  She was going to see a lot more of her former partner in the days to come, whether the Jellyfish wanted it or not…

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  • 2 weeks later...

((Bet you thought I was going to leave you high and dry this week, dear readers.  Fret not, for I am here to make your weekend even better with another installment of Queen Cuisine's story.  What sort of schemes is she cooking up for the Jellyfish?  I'm not at liberty to say--you'll just have to read on to find out!))

QUEEN CUISINE, PART 2

“And so the guard asks, ‘Hey, is that a shiv in yer pocket, or are ya just happy to see me?’”

Camilla Cooke howled with laughter at her own anecdote, and even the stoic Mona Warr could not help cracking a slight smirk.  Despite her icy demeanor, the criminal known as the Jellyfish had taken to her regular meetings with her old partner, though it was less about Camilla’s company and more about the treats she brought along with her.  Mona had been hooked since the former Queen Cuisine walked into her office with a basket of goodies and had insisted that Camilla bring her new treats to sample every few days.  It was all in the name of ensuring the ex-con’s café would be a success—at least, that was what she told herself.

In truth, Mona had forgotten just how good of a cook Camilla was, even without chemicals that made the food insanely addictive.  Whenever the ne’er-do-wells of Arcane City used to get together, Queen Cuisine always came through with a plethora of food, from a 100-layer lasagna to a sashimi platter the size of a truck tire.  Meetings had not been the same since she was carted off to prison—no one else really knew how to cook, and everyone had become so drab and dark since the Geist’s death.  Sometimes, Mona almost felt like she missed her old companion…almost.

“Sounds like you had quite the time in there,” the Jellyfish remarked as she took a bite from a slice of chocolate pound cake.  “I’m honestly surprised you made it through.  No offense, Camilla, but you aren’t exactly made of stern stuff.”

Camilla brushed off the slight with a wave of her hand.  “Ah, I had my ways.  You know me—I’m all about killin’ ’em with kindness.  Besides, I learned that if ya keep doing favors for people, ya eventually build up a pretty good network.”

“Very true,” Mona replied after clearing her throat with a long sip of tea and honey.  She normally took her tea straight, but Camilla made a good point about how honey brought out the flavor and gave it a much needed boost.  What she had failed to mention was that honey was highly caloric, more than any sugar or milk.

Their chit-chat continued on for some time before Camilla asked, “So, don’t get mad, but I’ve gotta know something.  When I went to the klink, ya had this thick Southern accent, like youze was this escapee from Alabama, but I haven’t heard ya so much as drawl once since I been back.”

Mona leaned back in her chair and gazed over at her fish tank while she answered, “I wanted to make a change, simple as that.  I got tired of being seen as some kind of hick by the rest of the community, so I hired a speech therapist to make sure I never go back to that ever again.  If you want to be respected in this city, Camilla, you need to be willing to make a change.”

“Well, maybe if I was still in the game, but I’m more than happy to stay clean,” the chef replied with a shrug of her shoulders.  “Besides, could ya imagine me all grim n’ gritty?  I’d be comin’ after people with cutlery and servin’ human meat pies, Sweeney Todd style.”

Mona gagged at the notion, though she still managed to finish the last of her cake.  She shook her head and told Camilla, “The last thing this city needs is another cannibal chef.  No, I’m putting a pretty penny on this café of yours, and you’re going to sell things sane people would eat.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Camilla giggled as she threw up a mock salute.  “I appreciate yer help with this, Mona, and I promise, yer gettin’ free meals for life when we open.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” the criminal retorted, the tip of her tongue glancing over her thin lips.

As they continued their conversation, Mona tucked into a slice of spice cake that had just the right amount of rum in it and hummed contentedly.  Camilla, for her part, was eating a modest chicken salad, more than happy to let her former partner in crime glut herself on sweets.  If the Jellyfish cared to notice, she would have found that the former Queen Cuisine had barely touched the platter of sweets that lay between them—and that she had eaten the lion’s share.  Of course, that would have meant acknowledging that Camilla was a threat, and she simply could not fathom the harmless prankster coming after her.

Eventually, they ran out of food and Camilla decided to take her leave.  She rose from her chair and collected her platter as she told Mona, “Well, it’s been a blast, Jelly, but I’d best get a move on.  I’ve got a meetin’ with a contractor, and then my niece has a basketball game tonight.”

“Have a wonderful time,” Mona huffed while she leaned back in her chair.  “Allison will show you out—I’ve got to get back to work myself.”

The truth was that Mona felt like a bag of wet cement and could not muster the strength to lift herself from her loveseat.  One hand idly stroked across the dome that was her stomach, though it failed to register how bloated she felt.  The criminal gave a sleepy wave to her friend and, once Camilla left, promptly passed out to take her first nap in fifteen years.

Outside the office, Camilla glanced to Allison, Mona’s personal secretary, and caught the girl working on the box of donuts she had brought in.  Allison had been a twig of a woman just a couple weeks prior, but thanks to the goodies Camilla always brought with her, she had filled out a fair bit.  While she still looked fairly thin from the chest up, her belly was starting to pooch into a teardrop of pudge, and her hips were creeping closer and closer to the edges of her chair every day.  Tree trunk thighs shifted against each other in an effort to get comfortable, and her ankles had begun to swell out of her heels.  Not that she seemed to notice—she was becoming so distracted these days.

“All right, Allie, I’m heading out,” Camilla told the brunette.  “I’ll see myself downstairs—wouldn’t want to distract ya while yer so busy.”

Allison blushed and wiped her lips of icing before replying, “Thanks, Ms. Cooke.  See you soon!”

Camilla gave the girl a wink before turning, only to do an about-face and asked, “Oh, before I go, could ya tell me a little somethin’ about this score Mona has coming up?  She mentioned somethin’ soon, but ya know how she can be sometimes—all tight-lipped and that.”

“I…I don’t know if I can share that, Ms. Cooke,” Allison answered, biting her lip in uncertainty.  “Ms. Warr wouldn’t be happy with—”

Her protests were silenced when Camilla set a chocolate chip muffin the size of a softball in front of her.  As Allison started to salivate, her inquisitor leaned against her desk and told her, “Hey, it’s just between us, and besides, Mona’s a pal.  I already know something’s goin’ down, so you might as well spill the rest of the beans, Allie.”

Of course, that was not the case at all.  Mona Warr acted on a strict ‘need to know’ policy, and an old accomplice was not on the list of those in the loop.  Camilla did not even know if the Jellyfish had plans in the works, but after buttering up Allison with specially laced treats over her last several visits, it was worth a shot.

“Well, I suppose if Ms. Warr already told you a little bit, it wouldn’t be too bad,” Allison reasoned, though her left hemisphere had taken a back seat once Camilla set the muffin down in front of her.  As she took a big bite from the top, she told the baker, “Ms. Warr has been talking about getting a shipment of guns—real military-grade stuff, you know?”

Camilla let out a low whistle and remarked, “Hully gee, that’s heavy stuff—a lot bigger than stealin’ diamond fish statues.  Any idea when this is goin’ down?”

“Ms. Cooke, I really don’t think I should share that kind of…is that fresh coconut?”

Allison’s protests were cut off when Camilla placed a hefty slice of coconut cake on her desk.  Disregarding manners and thinking only of consumption, the secretary picked up the cake with her bare hands and got a greedy mouthful of the sweet concoction.  She cooed around the dessert and answered Camilla, “There’s a meeting…tonight.  Misawa Sushi…back room.”

“Thank ya kindly, Allie,” Camilla purred as she watched the secretary scarf down her goodies.  “I’ll be back with more in a couple days, okay?  Take care of yerself!”

Allison grunted in reply, too busy cramming sugary delights down her gullet to satisfy the hunger that gnawed at her stomach.  She knew that she really should not eat so much, that she needed to cut back before she outgrew her wardrobe, but Camilla’s treats were too good to give up.  If she only knew her history, she might have realized who her boss’s kindly friend was once upon a time, but it was too late for her now.  The former Queen Cuisine had her hooks in her, and she was reeling her in a little bit more with each and every visit.

***

After returning to her palatial home on the outskirts of Arcane City that evening, Mona Warr retreated to the dining room, where her staff had laid out her dinner.  Normally, the criminal opted for a light salad with grilled fish, but after Camilla’s desserts cast their spell on her, she opted for something a little richer—something to remind herself that she was the wealthiest woman in the city.  The chefs had prepared a sizable plate of Oysters Rockefeller to start, a hearty serving of squid ink pasta with shrimp and lump crab, and a brick of tiramisu for dessert.  Despite filling her stomach tight with treats earlier, Mona was positively famished by the time she sat down for dinner and wolfed down every last bite.

Such a rich, buttery, and creamy meal sapped the crook of what energy she had left, and once her fork was scraping nothing but plate, she decided to retire to bed.  She trudged up the stairs to her bedroom and would have passed out on her California king, were it not for a nagging reminder that her pajamas would be comfier than her tailored suit.  With much reluctance, Mona plodded over to her armoire and pulled out a pair of silken pajama pants and shirt.

“Thank god,” Mona grumbled as she unbuttoned her slacks and slid them down her long legs.  “I swear, that idiot cleaner must have done something to these; they never bit me like this.”

Her Italian pants had left a red ring around her shapely waist, particularly around her stomach, which had pressed against the waistband most of the day.  Removing her slacks allowed her growing body room to expand, and her thighs took the opportunity to squish together even more than they already were.  Likewise, her rump inflated ever so slightly, swallowing up a little more of her panties and drooping from their increased weight.

The changes did not stop there, as evidenced by the taut tummy that bulged out as if she had swallowed a basketball whole.  It would deflate when Mona had a chance to sleep off her seafood glut, but she would still be left with a midsection that was soft to the touch and pinchable.  Love handles were forming at her hips and matched the blossoming back fat that formed around her tight bra.  Her breasts were still modest in proportion, but a little additional heft had them sagging—a testament to her age and lack of proper exercise.

“At least I don’t need to worry about that twit ruining my pajamas,” Mona remarked after sliding on her pants and slipping into her shirt.  Both garments were flowing on her, disguising her recent gains, and allowing herself to maintain the illusion of still being thin.

After sliding a sleep mask over her eyes and downing a shot of brandy, the Jellyfish slid into her spacious bed and fell into a dreamless sleep.  People often asked how she could sleep at night with every action weighing on her conscience, and Mona would simply reply, “Like a baby.” On that night, however, her blissful slumber was disturbed by her bedside phone ringing in her ears.

Mona growled and snatched her phone up.  She snarled, “This had better be good!”

“Boss, it’s Tonino,” the voice on the other line gasped, wildly out of breath.  “I’m…I’m the only one left.  Jesus…I can’t believe he’s back.”

“Slow down and catch your breath, moron,” Mona told her foot soldier.  “What do you mean, you’re the only one left?  Who’s back?”

Tonino took a few deep, audible breaths before answering, “We was at Misawa to pick up the guns, and everything was peachy keen.  All of a sudden, the lights go out in that backroom of theirs, and everyone starts scrambling for the door, right?  Next thing we know, this creep in a green coat and hat shows up and starts beating everyone to a pulp.  I mean, I heard things breaking that weren’t meant to be broken, boss.”

An intruder with a green coat and hat crashing her deal.  The thought of who that might have been chilled Mona to her soul, and she asked Tonino, “You’re sure it was a green coat?”

“Swear on my dad’s eyesight,” the gangster replied.  “It was that sorta pale, glow in the dark kinda green.  Boss, I don’t know how, but it had to be the Geist.”

“That’s impossible,” the Jellyfish contested.  Her fingers clutched at her sheets until her knuckles turned white, and a pit formed in her stomach.  “We…Queen Cuisine killed him fifteen years ago.  You must have been jumped by an impostor—some clown wanting to inherit that worthless legacy.”

“If he’s an impostor, he’s a damn good one,” Tonino huffed.  “He said he had a message.”

That was just what she needed—someone trying to scare her.  “What message?”

“He said, ‘You know what you did.  I’m not back for justice—I’m back for vengeance.  Before I’m done, your empire will crumble and you’ll beg for death.’”

Mona’s blood ran cold when she heard those words, but she could not afford to let anyone know.  She sat up against her pillow and told Tonino, “That’s hardly the worst threat I’ve ever gotten.  Y’all find somewhere to lay low, and we’ll regroup tomorrow to talk about this.”

She hung up on her goon and ripped her mask off.  The Geist was supposed to be dead and buried—a rotting corpse out in Macht Cemetery; there was no way he could be back after all these years.  It had to be some sort of wanna-be vigilante picking a fight with her in some vain effort to save what was left of Arcane City, but they had all been weeded out in the year or so following the Geist’s death.  Whatever or whoever it was, she had lost out on a big score that night—not only did she lose a good ten million dollars, but she had also lost out on an assortment of double-barreled handguns that would have made her even more of a force to be reckoned with.

While her brain scrambled for an answer, another part of her decided what she needed to do next.  Mona’s stomach growled like a hungry tiger, and she put a hand to her belly as a hollow feeling filled her body.  Her nerves were fraying, but the functioning part of her brain told her that she needed to get something to eat to calm down.  Maybe a little more of that tiramisu would do the trick, or perhaps another bowl of pasta.  Anything would work, so long as there was enough to bury this dread that crept up around her.

Mona slid out of bed on shaky feet, and she had to lean against the wall for most of the trip to the kitchen to steady herself.  When she finally got to the fridge, the criminal found a pan full of tiramisu waiting for her, beckoning to her in her hour of need.  She snatched the dish out of the fridge and a fork from a nearby drawer before perching on one of the barstools at the counter.  Her fingers trembled as she peeled back away the cling wrap and dug into the creamy dessert.

“There’s no way the Geist is back…no way at all,” Mona gurgled as she crammed in forkful after forkful.  “I watched him take his last breath…saw the life leave his eyes.  Gotta be some pretender fixin’ to corner in on me.  Well, he’s gonna find out that Mona Warr don’t scare easily.  I’ll find him, yes I will…I’ll find him and tan his hide but good.”

Perhaps it was because no one was around or that she simply did not care, but the more agitated Mona got, the more she dipped into her long-forgotten Southern drawl.  It mattered little, since all her attention fell on eating soon enough; venting only meant she was not consuming enough.  The Jellyfish tore through the tiramisu like it was tissue paper, speckling her cheeks with cream and crumbs, before moving onto the squid ink pasta.  She cared not if her lips were dyed black from the buttery dish, nor did it matter that her silk pajamas were stained with the inky sauce.  All that mattered was filling her belly and quelling the fears that ate away at her mind.

By the time she had finished, Mona had put away more in a night than she had all week.  She leaned against the counter and gasped for air as her stuffed stomach forced the air out of her lungs.  It had grown so round and gravid that it could not be hidden entirely by her shirt, forcing it to hang out the bottom like a pregnant woman’s belly.  The Jellyfish hiccupped and groaned as she waddled her way towards her den, lacking the strength to make it back to her bedroom.  She was too stuffed to breathe, much less think, so she quickly passed out once she hit the couch.  Tomorrow, she would worry about her Geist problem—tonight, she would sleep the sleep of the unjust.

“Damned Geist…damn him to Hell,” she murmured before a fitful sleep overtook her.

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24 minutes ago, Batman76 said:

Not sure which characters these are expies of, but love the details, especially the returning accent 

They're loosely based on a few different characters: Queen Cuisine has bits of Harley Quinn but mostly represents campy, Batman '66 types of villains; Jellyfish is in the same boat, but is closer to the Penguin; Geist is an expy of the Spirit.The gimmick here is what must it be like for an old school prankster criminal to be in a world of grim and gritty heroes and villains. 

And thanks! I'm really trying to get better with the little details in these stories.

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((And we're back with more Queen Cuisine!  Now that there's a new player in town, how will Mona Warr--the nefarious Jellyfish--react?  Will she be able to maintain her hardened, lean demeanor, or will she eat her feelings until she's gone up a few dress sizes?  You'll just have to read to find out!  Sit back, have a drink of whatever you're having, and enjoy!))

QUEEN CUISINE, PART 3

The next several weeks were not kind to Mona Warr, for, try as she might, all her dealings were broken up by the imposter Geist.  Everyone from her highest enforcer to lowest drug dealer were beaten to within an inch of their life, and those were the lucky ones.  Her minions were dropping like flies, and no matter what she did to stem it, nothing ever seemed to work.  She had resorted to shutting down all but her most essential operations, and even those were conducted under extreme caution.  After years of security, the Jellyfish was under attack and she had no idea how to handle it.

One of her greatest changes was beefing up the security in her office.  There had to be a leak going on somewhere in her building, be it a bug or a traitor in the midst, and she was going to find out who or what it was.  Mona had the entire building checked for any sign of a plant and every single person that walked through the door was frisked on entry and exit—with one exception.

“Hi, boys!” Camilla Cooke greeted two security guards as she waltzed through the doors without a care in the world.  “And how are my hungry guys doin’ today?”

“Better now that you’re here, Ms. Cooke,” one guard chuckled as he set his scanner down.  “What’s on the menu today?”

Camilla set down her trademark picnic basket and pulled two slices of coffee cake from within.  “How does some cinnamon cawffee cake—with just a hint of rum—sound?”

“I’d say that you just made my day,” the other guard answered happily.

The reformed crook left treats with all the staff in the lobby before making her way into the elevator without a single person stopping her once.  After all, she was just the nice lady who brought in snacks for everybody and never carried anything on her but her basket of goodies—how much of a threat could she be?  To get an idea of just how serious she was, one need only look at the Jellyfish’s personal assistant, Allison Catt.

In the near two months since Camilla first came to visit, Allison had swollen up like a balloon full of custard.  Her gain had spread to her upper body now, which meant she could no longer hide her new pounds behind her desk—she was a fatty from tip to toe.  She desperately needed to go shopping for a new outfit, as half the buttons on her blouse were straining around her gut and her skirt was fraying along her saddlebags, but between her boss’s demanding schedule and stuffing her face when she got back home, there was simply no time to do so.  As such, her once professional and high-end wardrobe served more as a barometer for how thick and juicy she was becoming.

Not that it mattered to the secretary.  Allison found herself caring about very little these days save for filling her stomach, and frivolous thoughts about looking presentable for work went out the window.  It used to be that she only overate whenever Camilla brought snacks for her, but as those tainted treats cast their spell on her, her appetite had grown in leaps and bounds.  Now, she looked forward to a large spread at every meal, even though she snacked constantly throughout the day.  Once upon a time, she had ambitions of being as successful as Mona; now, she only focused on where her next meal was coming from.

“Hey there, Allie Cat,” Camilla greeted the growing girl.  She took an admiring look at Allison like an artist might study their canvas and asked, “How’s my favorite secretary?”

“Hungry,” Allison giggled as she licked her plump lips in excitement.  “What’cha got?”

“Well, I’ve got a big boxful of donut holes that I think yer gonna like,” the former Queen Cuisine hummed as she pulled the box from her basket.  “There’s powdered, jelly-filled, glazed—chocolate and plain, blueberry, pumpkin—”

“You had me at donut holes,” Allison interrupted the visitor.  She greedily reach out for the box, only for Camilla to yank it away and wag a finger at her like a schoolteacher.

“Mind yer manners, young lady,” she told the secretary in a stern tone.  “What do ya say?”

Allison bowed her head and pouted like a child before mumbling, “Sorry, Ms. Cooke.  May I please have a snack?”

“Sure, but only because yer such a cutie-patootie,” Camilla chuckled.  As she handed the box over to Allison, she reached out and pinched the secretary’s chubby chipmunk cheeks, eliciting a giggle from the bulbous brunette.

The reformed crook leaned against the counter and drank in the sight of the flabby secretary stuffing donut holes down her gullet.  Allison’s features had rounded out with puffy cheeks and a second chin that pronounced itself every time she opened her mouth, and her collarbone had vanished under a fine layer of pudge.  She showcased an unintentionally large amount of cleavage from her skintight blouse, and Camilla could easily make out how much breast blubber was overflowing the undersized cups.  Threads were giving way along her arms and sides, allowing for little glimpses of the pale, creamy flab contained therein.

The crème de la crème came below the secretary’s chest, as her belly oozed under her blouse and onto her lap.  Camilla wished she could reach over the counter and grab a handful of the jelly roll that sat on Allison’s thighs, but she did not want to spook the poor girl.  Instead, she satisfied herself by studying just how tight the secretary’s chair had gotten—how her hips rolled out the sides and her thighs were packed in between the handles.  Among the items that needed to be replaced were her stockings, as Allison was bursting through the cheap nylon like a sausage left in nail polish remover for a month.  Her knees were hidden by her thigh flab even while sitting, and the switch to flat shoes did nothing to hide how thick her ankles were getting.

“All right, Allie, I’ll leave ya to it,” Camilla hummed as she patted the secretary on the head.  “I’ll give you any extras after the meeting.”

“Thank you, Ms. Cooke!” Allison cooed before filling her mouth with three donut holes at once.

Camilla left the secretary to her doughy devices and walked into an increasingly familiar sight—Mona glaring daggers and screeching into her phone.  The Jellyfish screamed, “You listen to me, you little piece of trash—you are going to see this deal through, or I am going to gut you like a fish!  I’m not losing another dime because of some wannabe Geist, so get out there and make me some money!”

After Mona slammed her phone back down in its cradle, she looked to Camilla and immediately softened her expression.  Her old companion could see how hard this was on her: she had dark bags under her eyes, crinkles in her forehead, and gray hairs in her light blonde locks.  It was all she could do not bury her head in her hands and shriek, and the sight of Camilla helped calm her frazzled nerves.  That and the basket of goodies she had in her arms—that helped some too.

“I hope there’s chocolate cake in there, because I am in desperate need of some,” Mona grumbled as she slipped out of her chair.  “You would not believe the day I’ve had.”

It took a little more work to get out of her chair than she might have liked, but that was the price Mona paid when she buried her anxiety and fear under thousands of calories.  Allison might have put on a good few pounds since Camilla started visiting, but she paled in comparison to her employer, who was fast becoming less like a jellyfish and more like a whale.  It was not enough that Camilla gave her a feast of baked goods every time she stopped by—with this new Geist showing up at every turn, she had been eating around the clock as a panic response.  This was evidenced by the smears of chocolate on her lips, which she hastily wiped away.

Mona waddled over to her friend with tree trunk thighs that rubbed all the way down to her fat-caked knees, and even her calves were closing in on each other.  Her hips rocked from side to side without any effort on her part, barely contained flab swaying this way and that as she made her way across the room.  Each step sent ripples through her gelatinous backside, sending the beanbag-sized booty quivering with every heavy footfall.  Her slacks creaked menacingly as she moved, but she ignored every warning sign in favor of the food that Camilla was setting out.

“I can imagine,” the chef hummed while placing a thick slice of chocolate spoon cake in front of Mona’s seat.  “It sticks when some smahty-pants tries to weasel in on yer business.  Any luck findin’ this creep yet?”

Mona rolled her eyes and planted her widening ass in a chair that was quickly becoming incompatible with her.  “I wish, but all my men are useless.  Those cowards are acting like they never fought someone before!  Back when I was still out there, I never ran from a fight.”

“Well, except those times ya got away on yer helicopter parasol,” Camilla retorted.

Her criminal friend snorted but said nothing to contest the fact.  Instead, she reached out for the slice of cake in front of her, but her beachball of a belly impeded her progress and bunched up into a thick slab of rolls.  Mona could have leaned forward in her seat, but that would involve shifting her rump, which was fast becoming her least favorite thing to do.

“Dang it, Camilla, would you hand me that slice?” Mona grumbled as she plopped back in her chair.  “I’ve been working all day—I shouldn’t have to work for my food.”

“Of course, yer majesty,” Camilla snickered as she handed the cake over to the lazy criminal.

Once she had the cake in hand, Mona’s eyes filled with a greedy gleam normally reserved for riches or anything related to the ocean.  She snatched up her spoon, scooped up a massive bite, and crammed it in her cheeks with gusto, repeating quicker and quicker until the delectable was gone in a matter of seconds.  After shoveling the crumbs into her mouth, the piggish blonde sighed blissfully and put a hand to her stomach.

“My, but you do good work, darlin’,” the Jellyfish cooed.  “What’s next on the menu?”

“Why don’t we move onto some macarons before trying a triple chocolate cheesecake I think you’re going to die for,” Camilla answered with a grin as she set the next batch of goodies out for her increasingly greedy friend.

***

The snacks kept coming and Mona kept guzzling them down as if she had not had a bite all day, but things slowed down after an hour of constant glutting.  Camilla’s basket seemed positively endless, providing sweet after sweet, but even the avaricious Jellyfish had her limits.  Halfway through a slice of lemon tart, the criminal set the plate down on the dome of her stomach and let her softened arms flop down in exhaustion.

“Aw, what’s the matter, Jelly?  Yer almost done—just a few more bites to go!” Camilla encouraged her companion.

“Guh,” Mona grunted dumbly as she lay out like a beached whale.  “Queenie, Ah done ate half a bakery’s worth of treats; if’n Ah eat another bite, Ah will pop, Ah do declare.”

“Oh, I think youze got a little more room in the tank,” the baker replied.  “Ya know what the problem is—that fancy-shmancy suit yer wearin’.  Don’cha remember those big dresses ya used ta wear?  They were so pretty and cute, but most of all, they were flowy.  Ya need somethin’ with more room, see, and that’d be poifect fer ya.”

Mona let out an undignified belch and retorted, “Ah reckon y’all have a point.  That don’t help me none right now though.”

Camilla tapped her chin in thought before snapping her fingers in realization.  She got out of her chair with far more ease than Mona had and told her friend, “Let me try somethin’ real quick.”

Before the Jellyfish could ask what Camilla had in mind, the chef leaned down and undid her belt with such ease that she did not feel a thing.  Instantly, Mona felt relief in her overtaxed stomach, and she lolled her head back in bliss.  There was just one more problem: her arms felt like bags of wet sand; even lifting a single finger was proving difficult.

“And now, Phase 2,” Camilla purred as she picked up the slice of tart.  She scooped up another forkful and fed it to a confused but grateful Mona, who ate it up without hesitation.  “Bettah?”

“Much,” the Jellyfish cooed as lemony goodness filled her mouth.  She opened up for another bite, but Camilla shook her head and held the fork just out of reach.

“Before ya have the rest, I need youze to tell me somethin’,” the chef told her friend.

“Wh-Whatevah you want,” Mona replied, her eyes darting to the lingering bite.

“I want to know where yer next few scores are lined up.  I need times, dates, location—the works—and yer gonna tell me before ya get one more bite,” Camilla explained.  The smile vanished from her lips for an instant before popping up again.  “Come on…just between us pals.”

Mona nibbled at her bottom lip as she weighed the options in her mind.  She had been on information lockdown since her troubles began, but surely it would not hurt to tell Camilla.  The woman was just a baker now, for goodness sake—she did not have a malicious bone in her body.  Besides, if she could not trust Queen Cuisine, who else could she trust in this hellhole of a city?

“Well, okay, but only because y’all are so sweet,” Mona answered with a lazy grin.

“Atta girl,” Camilla chuckled as she fed another forkful to Mona.  “Let’s get finish up this tart, and then I’ll get my pen.”

After getting the rest of the tart into the Jellyfish’s packed belly, Camilla wiped the meringue from Mona’s lips and patted her on the head.  She cooed, “So, how was that?  Knock yer socks off?”

“All the way, sugah,” Mona burbled as she slouched in her chair.  She felt like she was stuffed up to her eyeballs with cake, cookies, and pies, but she had never felt so content.  All of her worries were gone, replaced by the surprisingly pleasant feeling of a warm belly packed full of delectable delights.  She ignored just how tight her blouse felt and how she was splayed out like a lady of the night—she was simply too stuffed to care.

“Well, I’d best get on my way,” Camilla told her old chum as she stood up no worse for the wear.  “Thanks again fer givin’ me all that info—I’ll make sure this gets into the right hands.”

Mona nodded, barely paying attention to what Camilla said at this point.  “Good, good…y’all go ahead and do that.  Ah’ll catch that no-good snake in the grass if it’s the last thing Ah do.”

“I know ya will,” the chef replied.  She gathered together the assortment of plates and boxes and put them back in her basket before giving Mona a peck on the cheek.  “I’ll see ya tomorrow, Jelly—and don’t ferget what I said about the dresses.”

“Ah sure won’t,” the criminal yawned.  “Now, scoot—Ah need mah beauty sleep.”

Camilla sashayed out of the office, but not before taking a peek over her shoulder to see that Mona had already passed out in her chair.  Allison looked to be the same way, as the simple-minded secretary was slack in her chair, head tilted over the back and mouth open in a snore.  The buttons on her blouse had popped all the way to her chest, and not a single donut hole remained—and judging by the wrappers that surrounded her, Allison had supplemented them with a trip to the vending machine.

“My, but I do good work,” Camilla hummed as she watched the secretary’s gut swell in and out with each breath.  Unable to contain herself any longer, the chef reached over the counter and pinched a thick roll of buttery belly.  She sighed blissfully as she rolled the flab between her fingers, letting go only when she thought she heard Allison stirring.

“I’ll be seeing more of you soon,” she whispered to the sleeping girl.  With a quick glance at Mona’s office door, she added, “Both of you.”

***

When the next day rolled around, everyone in the building was surprised to see Mona Warr waltz into her office wearing what she was.  The Jellyfish was clad in a pastel pink gown that trailed along the ground behind her in a sea of fabric, constricted her flabby belly into something fairly flat, and bolstered her breasts into looking even fatter than they were.  The gown jutted out in the back, though not from any built-in bustle—rather, her rump was just that rotund.  She had elbow-length gloves on, which only served to emphasize how soft her arms had gotten, and a pink bonnet capped off the entire ensemble.  It was like Mona had stepped out of a period piece and into the modern world, with no one sure how to react.

“What’re y’all lookin’ at?” the Jellyfish snapped at her bewildered staff.  “Get back to work!”

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((And here it is, folks--the end of the line!  Will Camilla get her revenge on the Jellyfish?  Who is this mysterious new Geist?  Why are we asking you all these questions?  Everything comes to a head here folks, so sit back and enjoy!))

QUEEN CUISINE, PART 4

In the weeks that followed, the only thing Mona Warr had to look forward to were her luncheons with Camilla Cooke.  She had tried every trick in the book to cover her trail, but no matter what she did, this elusive Geist seemed to be one step ahead of her.  The worst part was that she was losing out on millions in deals that went south and heists that were foiled at every turn; it was getting so bad that her men could not so much as sell cigarettes on the street corner.  The second worst part was that after every foiled crime, one of her goons was left alive to deliver that same menacing message.

She was willing to chalk it up to some wanna-be trying to get under her skin, but as time went on and her stranglehold on Arcane City loosened, it was clear that this was not some half-baked vigilante.  Whoever was behind this was good—damned good—and she needed to protect herself should they ever turn their attention from her business to her person.  It had been a long time since the Jellyfish broke out one of her trick parasols, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

“So, izzat the one with the flamethrower or the one that sprays acid?” asked Camilla during one of her daily visits.  “And do ya still have the one that made gold?  That was always one of my favorites.”

“Too expensive ta maintain,” Mona grunted as she shoveled triple chocolate mousse down her throat.  “Ah had ta shelf the dang thing, but not ‘fore Ah taught the so-called ‘King Drake’ a lesson.”

All the stress eating she had done over the last three months had caused a radical change in the sharp, stoic Jellyfish.  The toothpick of a woman that greeted Camilla had exploded into a landwhale that lumbered everywhere she went and got tired just waddling from her elevator to her desk.  Her lean, angular face had given way to sagging cheeks and jowls that quivered with the slightest motion and were often splotchy and red from her meager exertions.  The puffy shoulders of her dresses often her how thick her shoulders were getting, but there was no denying her arms, which popped threads up along her sleeves as her biceps tried to overlap her elbows.  This all led down to pudgy sausage fingers that needed custom gloves if Mona wanted to remain fashionable.

Most of the corpulent criminal’s outfits had deep necklines that offered a view of truly cavernous cleavage, and it was a small miracle that her bulbous bust had not escaped from its confines.  What no one knew was that Mona’s bountiful bosom owed an incredible amount of gratitude to her corsets and shapewear; otherwise, her flabby, middle-aged chest would have been far less impressive and far droopier.  The same could not be said for her doughy stomach, which was too large to be contained by ordinary measures and craved release every time it became engorged after a good glut.  A thick belt of belly blubber oozed out from under her corsets and made itself pronounced in her gaudy dresses, no matter what she did to hide it.

Thankfully, Mona had managed to mask the greatest part of her gain by burying her lower body under a ton of frilly fabric.  Once upon a time, her dresses were supported by a wire frame that made them so large and spacious, but now, they had all been removed to make way for her ample hips and backside.  The Jellyfish had spared no expense in swapping out all her chairs with arms for ones without; she did not want a repeat of the incident a couple weeks prior, when she had wedged herself in her desk chair and could not get up without a good amount of grease.  The only downside was that her saddlebags rolled over the sides of her chairs, but as long as no one could see that, Mona felt that her secret was secure.

Meanwhile, her scrawny chicken legs had ballooned with fat and grown to the point that they sagged over her knees and touched no matter how far apart she spread them—not that she could stretch much these days.  They joined with her chunky calves in creating thick columns of flab from hip to toe, which were themselves becoming too fat for her fancy shoes.  Mona had to resort to cheaper flats just to avoid being uncomfortable day in and day out; she was already suffering enough by trying to cram her belly away.  Waddling was already difficult enough—she did not need to add in the challenge of balancing hundreds of pounds in designer stilettos.

Even Camilla was surprised at how quickly the image-conscious criminal had allowed herself to balloon.  When she began this plot of fattening her old accomplice, she had expected at least some measure of resistance, but Mona had never once pushed back against her onslaught of goodies.  In just a few months, the Jellyfish had become bigger than she ever was before and lost all of her edge well ahead of schedule.

“Pass some more of them fudge cookies, darlin’,” Mona asked Camilla, who quickly obliged and pulled out three large, chunky cookies.  When she set them on the Jellyfish’s plate and put the box back in her basket, the criminal waved and told her, “Nah, don’t put ‘em away.  You just leave ‘em out, ‘kay?”

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” Camilla replied.  “So, what’s the plan?  Gonna skip town, maybe head down to the Bahamas fer a spell?”

Mona scoffed at the notion as she bit into a gooey cookie.  “Ah ain’t yeller, Camilla.  Ah’m fixin’ to take a little stay-cation in the ol’ homestead and conduct mah business from there ‘til this whole thing blows over.  Just ya wait, darlin’: Ah’ve got all mah top guys out there lookin’ for this Geist yahoo, an’ when they catch him, Ah’m gonna give him the worst stingin’ of his life.”

Camilla chuckled, “What I wouldn’t give to see that.  Ya still want me to come by to let ya know how things are going with the café?”

“The café?” asked the Jellyfish as vague recollections of prior conversations coming back to her.

“The one that yer financing?  The one whose menu I’ve been bringing to ya these past couple months?” Camilla teased.  “Come on, don’t tell me ya forgot!”

Truthfully, Mona had forgotten entirely about Camilla’s café.  They had talked business the first few times that the chef stopped by, but as Camilla brought more food and addled her mind, the sharp businesswoman forgot to ask for progress and settled into friendly conversation.  When was the last time they had even brought up the little bistro?  Had it opened already?  Mona had gotten so caught up between Camilla’s company and the chaos that was her criminal enterprise that she had no idea what was going on in her friend’s venture.

“Shucks, Camilla, it done slipped mah mind,” the bemused crook mumbled as she shoved half a cookie in her mouth.  “Ah sure am sorry—with everythin’ goin’ to Hell in a handbasket, Ah lost track.”

“Oh, bless yer heart,” Camilla cooed in mock sympathy.  “Ya must be exhausted with all this Geist stuff.  Maybe ya ought to take that stay-cation now, huh?”

Mona nodded dumbly and patted sweat from her brow with a handkerchief.  “Yes, Ah suppose yer right.  Ah’ll finish up a couple things here and then have mah driver take me home.  A little rest might do me a world of good.  Sorry to cut things short, darlin’—maybe some other time?”

“Of course, Jelly Belly,” Camilla hummed as she rose to her feet.  “I’ll see ya real soon, okay?”

Mona blubbered some unintelligible reply before turning to her computer to try and compose herself with work and the rest of the fudge cookies.  Camilla almost felt bad for the deteriorating degenerate, but any sympathy she might have had was lost in the fifteen years she spent behind bars.  All she had left for her old partner was contempt and vengeance, which she had in abundance.  Mona was almost completely broken—she just needed a push over the edge.

“Don’t worry yer pretty little head, Jelly,” Camilla told her friend on the way out the door.  “I think this problem will sort itself out real soon—I got a good feelin’ about this one.”

***

That night, Mona found herself in a fitful bout of sleep as visions of a wrathful vigilante filled her head.  Despite the fact that her mansion had more guards than a prison, she could not shake this icy feeling of dread that filled her chest.  Everything was falling apart around her and she had no idea how to deal with it save for digging in her feet or gorging herself until her anxiety quelled, and since the mansion was on lockdown, she could not get her now daily midnight snack.  Her heart was racing like it was in NASCAR and her stomach churned like it was making butter, but there was nothing she could do except wait for the morning to come.

Her fears came true just as the clock struck 2.  She could hear a scuffle just down the hall, with men shouting and guns blazing, only for deathly silence to replace it a moment later.  Mona shivered with panic as she sat up in bed and reached for the shotgun parasol that lay beside her.  The gun trembled in her plump hands while the sounds of clicking shoes came closer and closer.

“Don’t ya dare take another step, ya spook!” Mona shouted with more fire than she had to give.  “Ah’m armed, and Ah will blow yer head off if’n ya come any closer!”

The voice that answered was deep, booming, and hauntingly familiar to the quivering Jellyfish.  “I told you I would come for you, Mona Warr—now, your day of judgment has come.  Nothing can save you from my vengeance!”

Mona’s itchy finger could wait no longer and fired two shots that tore through the bedroom door like paper, but still missed their mark.  The ghastly intruder on the other side kicked the rest of the door in and walked in without any fear.  He was just as her men had described: tall, grim, and dressed in a pale green that seemed to glow in the dark.  His face was covered by a mask that left only his eyes exposed, but Mona would recognize those eyes anywhere—after all, she had seen the life leave them.

“Wh-What do ya want with me, specter?” Mona asked with a trembling voice as she cowered beneath her covers.  “Ain’t ya supposed ta be a hero?  Ya cain’t kill me!”

“I told you I wouldn’t kill you,” the grim ghost reminded his victim, “but you will beg for death.”

“What’cha gonna do?” Mona squeaked.

The Geist stormed over to her bed with terrifying speed and grabbed her fat face in one of his gloved hands.  As he squeezed her plump cheeks, he sneered, “Gonna do the best I can.”

Before Mona could ask what that meant, the Geist pulled a biscuit from thin air and crammed it in her mouth.  If she were not so terrified, the criminal might have been able to savor the buttery, flaky treat, but it was all she could do to get it down.  Once she ate the entire thing, her captor released her and stepped away, though his mesmerizing eyes stayed locked on her.  Mona waited with bated breath to see what the fiend might do next, but he did not lift so much as a finger to her.

“And now, we wait,” the Geist muttered.

Suddenly, Mona’s stomach growled like an angry jungle cat and terrible hunger pains raced up and down her side.  She winced as she reached under her covers and felt her stomach roiling in her hands, so terribly hungry that she would have eaten anything to ease the pain.  When she turned to the Geist, her pleading eyes were wide as dinnerplates and her lips trembled.

“What…what did y’all do ta me?” the Jellyfish whimpered.

“Prepared you,” the Geist answered darkly.  “You’re still clinging to the last vestiges of who you are, but I’m going to tear those down before your very eyes.  You’re so hungry right now, you would do anything to sate yourself, wouldn’t you?  Then you’ll have no problem with this.”

The grim vigilante stepped aside, revealing a trough full of cheese grits, shrimp, and bacon, the aroma of which made Mona weak in the knees and quake with fear.  She knew her appetite was out of control these days and whatever the Geist had given her only made it worse, but she was not going to debase herself by eating from a trough like the pigs she used to feed.  That was what she tried to tell herself, but a trickle of drool from her lips betrayed her, and she was soon rocking her body around to try and stand.

Kicking off her covers revealed the porcine criminal clad in a nightgown that once ran all the way to her ankles, but after weeks of gorging and growing, only reached her knees.  She threw one blubbery leg over the side of the bed, then another, and after weeble-wobbling her way to her feet, she waddled towards the trough as fast as her tree trunk legs would carry her.  It was only when she sank to her knees that she realized what she was doing, and she felt her heart stop.

“Ah…ah cain’t do this,” Mona choked out, her voice cracking with strain.  “Ah’m one of the most powerful criminals in the whole state.  Ah’m a respectable businesswoman.  Ah’m the Jellyfish, dagnabbit!  Ah’m not…I’m not some hick pig that will stuff her face!  You can’t do this to me!”

“That’s where you’re wrong, you pathetic sack of lard,” the Geist growled as he grabbed Mona’s hair tight and forced her head up so she could look in his eyes.  “After all these losses you’ve suffered, you’re worth nothing—no one wants to do business with a loser, and that’s all you are.  Your forces are gone, your business is going under, and your allies are abandoning you like yesterday’s trash.  You are not the Jellyfish: she was an indomitable force who was cold as ice and would not hesitate to kill.  You’re weak, soft, flabby Mona Warr, a refugee from Mississippi who never should have left the family farm.”

Hot tears streaked down Mona’s chubby cheeks as she murmured, “No…Ah’m not—”

“Yes you are, you murderous taint,” Geist snarled.  “You’re just a pig that slapped on some lipstick, nothing more.  Now, stop your worthless begging and get to eating.”

With that, the vigilante forced Mona’s head into the trough of grits.  A few months ago, she might have fought back and turned the tables, but that was a completely different woman than the one face down in cheesy grits.  This woman gave into her fate and slurped up the greasy, gooey mix like it was lifesaving manna, and when the Geist released his hold on her, she only continued.  She came up for a lungful of air but returned to eating an instant later, shoveling in grits and bits of meat with both hands.  Gone was the fearsome Jellyfish, who no one dared to cross—in her place was Mona Warr, a lily-livered coward of a woman who gobbled up her feelings with abandon.

Once he was satisfied that Mona was occupied with gorging and nothing else, the Geist walked over to the bed, sat down, and let out a long, contented sigh.  He removed his fedora, revealing curly black hair flattened down with a hairnet, and then stripped away his mask, revealing an exhausted Camilla Cooke underneath.  Fighting her way through an entire mansion of hired guns took a lot out of her, but seeing her former accomplice diving into a ten gallon trough of grits helped her feel a lot better.

“For such a big fish, Mona, you were just a stepping stone for me,” the woman coldly remarked to her ravenous victim.  Gone was her thrown-on accent, no longer needed now that Mona was in her own little world.  “You always were the nervous sort, so I pegged you as the easiest mark of the bunch, but I could never have anticipated you would crack quite like you did.  Still, I was able to get everything I needed from you, and I think I’m ready to take on the rest of the Gangland Gals.  You’re all going to pay for framing me all those years ago, one way or the other.”

Mona was too far-gone to hear a word that came from Camilla, which was just as well for the culinary criminal.  She watched her former friend glut herself and chuckled, “But if you think your punishment is over, you’ve got another think coming…”

***

Two weeks later, Queenie’s was open for business and had more customers by the day.  It was a homey little café that offered a variety of food, but their specialty were their sweets, which had a lengthy menu all their own.  Word was quickly spreading around Arcane about the delicious spread and friendly staff, particularly the jovial owner, who made sure to speak with each and every customer that walked through her doors.

“Welcome to Queenie’s!” Camilla greeted an elderly couple that came in out of the rain.  “Come on in and let’s see about warmin’ ya up.  Mona, would ya show the lovely couple to a table?”

“’Course, sugah,” the hefty hostess replied to her friend and boss.  She glanced to the husband and wife and told them, “Right this way, y’all.”

Mona Warr had gone through a radical change after shutting down her company.  Her grey and blonde locks were fluffed up into a beehive bouffant, her face was caked in tacky make-up, and she was wearing cheap clothes that she would have been swimming in a few months prior.  As it was, her flabby backside threatened to tear her slacks, her buttons strained around her belly, and her entire body jiggled madly with each step.  There was no sign of the formidable Jellyfish anymore—she had been replaced by a subservient ball of blubber that took orders with a smile.

((As a wise post-credits screen once said, Queen Cuisine will return.  Her quest of fattening vengeance has only begun, but there are plenty more heroines out there to fatten up.  Stay tuned as we return to our normal posting schedule next Wednesday, and get ready for an adventure with the Sensational Miracle!))

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